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tieflingtareon · 7 months

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My love, are you the devil? (Oh, call me a devil)

Chapter 2 | Words: 4,525

Summary: Astarion found himself often surprised by his heroic companion. He had one goal. To become the favoured companion of the group, to earn the Tieflings loyalty, to make Tar'eons strength his own. Yet Tar'eon isn't like the usual target of his manipulations. Despite his naivety, he does not seem gullible. There is something very wrong with their 'leader' to begin with. Astarion isn't sure if he wants to control it or eradicate the threat it posed. But can he really do either when Tar'eon himself seems so...unwaveringly kind?

That devil is getting into his head, while others get into Tar'eons. He doesn't appreciate not having the upperhand after years of being at the disadvantage. He will find a way to make him see.

He is the one he should be listening to. Astarion would make it so, no matter the means.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50668558/chapters/127995079

Astarion expected a much lengthier conversation when it was revealed that he was a vampire. He truly did. Expected the attempt of a pitchfork at the very least. He was sure Tar’eon wouldn’t let anyone run him through, but he had thought there would be at least one attempt from Wyll.

But no. Tar’eon insisted that he trusted him. A stupid decision, on his part, but…well, it was nice to be trusted. He’d never had anyone trust him before. He was beaten half to death in the alleyways by Gur, was abused by his master for two centuries, had charmed his way through his undead life, slaughtered many, and yet…Tar’eon extended his trust to him. And true or not, it saved his hind.

He even bothered to call them all friends. A ridiculous notion. They all have their own selfish reasons for being here, but the objective was to remove the parasite in their heads.

The most surprising part of it all was that Tar’eon offered up his throat again.

“Not nearly as much as last night but…I’m sure I can manage a little bit of wooziness first thing in the morning if it meant you only feed from me. Having you out every night may catch the wrong attention. I’d hate for you to get hurt while away from camp.” Where I can’t protect you, was unspoken, but Astarion could fill in the gaps. He’d assume it was because it was a burden to have him bring trouble back, if not for the sincerity in Tar’eons voice.

If not for the sincerity that he could feel when he allowed the connection to dance and brush against Tar’eons. It was hard to control, honestly, but when he yearned to know what he was thinking, it was like the tadpole knew and called to Tar’eons own.

Tar’eon barely let him into his mind though. When he detected his presence in that moment, the brush to grasp if his sincerity was true, Tar’eon allowed only that much before shutting it down. Shutting him out.

He supposed it was fair. He may trust him not to bite without asking, but he did not trust him to know him. After all, despite their time together as a party, they did not know each other personally. Victims of circumstance, forced into proximity. That was all it was.

Tar’eon had told him so when he called him a saint. Now…he simply had to let this be it. Tar’eon would give him blood nightly, he would not hunt, and they would both fight side by side until they found a cure, or…well. Became mindflayers. Or died. Death seemed preferable to all those tentacles. He was still vain, even if he couldn’t see his own reflection.

Oh, how he missed staring into a mirror. He knew his hair to be white, and his eyes to be red, knew himself to be handsome and undead, but…he did not know what he looked like when he was scared or angry, how his face looked when he smiled or frowned. It was a mystery to him. He could only see himself through others, through their words. One target painted him once, in the early days of his enslavement. When he still felt anxious about bringing them back, when he still felt guilt.

The artist had painted long, flowing hair, ruby eyes and pale skin. He’d looked ethereal, like a vampire should. Enticing.

He tried to keep it, simply so he could remember his own face, but Cazador had taken it. He couldn’t remember if he broke it or if that had just been what he was worried he would do. Some early memories were like that. So distorted by fear that he couldn’t remember certain things with clarity.

He does remember a few years after that a target had touched his hair in front of him. So enthralled by his beauty that she hadn’t been able to resist caressing his curls.

"They’re so lovely…I can tell you have your mothers looks, even without meeting her.”

Astarion had smiled. Back in those days, he could still remember his own mothers face. Not anymore.

"I do.”

Cazador had cut his hair only a few days later. Jagged and uneven. He couldn’t remember why, but he knew it was punishment for something. Then he told him to fix it himself and find him dinner.

Astarion’s hair never grew back. That would require a body that could create and grow. But he was stagnant. He healed faster than most, and he had strength above most humans, but he could not grow old. Time would never pass inside his body. Time passed around him, and that was that.

His life had been stagnant and dark until he was kidnapped and given this little parasite inside his head. A parasite that allowed him to feel the warmth of the sun on his skin again. That allowed him to enter homes freely, to cross running water — Hells, to even enter holy ground.

It was like being alive again. Yet he had all the perks of being an elf, and a vampire, at once.

He was a living vampire, truly living for the first time in two centuries, and he intended to keep this freedom at any cost.

He just needed to learn more about the squatter in his skull. Tar’eon would help simply by keeping him alive long enough against the enemies they faced to find out how to control and harness these pests. If there was even a way to do so. It would be such a waste.

The goblin camp smelt rancid. He cursed his heightened senses. The entire time they wandered through it, Tar’eon lying his way passed every guard with such ease…it was terrifying how good of a liar he was. It was like he was a different person when he was in enemy territory, compared to the camp, or the grove.

He used his large body to intimidate, used a vipers tongue to slither further inside the camp despite being a tielfing himself, the target demographic to these cult-obsessed goblins at the moment.

Tar’eon seemed to take delight in humiliating and fighting them compared to falling Kagha, or the Owlbear mother.

Astarion found himself enjoying this new side of Tar’eon, the one that threw shit in the face of a goblin who tried to humiliate the tielfing, and made the cocky creature, Crusher, kiss his boot.

He also found himself amused when Tar’eon turned the Owlbear cub against its tormentors, offering his scent to the cub so he could find their camp later on. An apology, he assumed, for slaying his mother.

Tar’eon looked a little lighter after doing so, before he took his steel gaze to the large doors that led inside.

Tar’eon seemed to notice something the others hadn’t, because once inside and the guards convinced, he took Astarion’s wrist gently to slow his strides, stepping past him and dipping his head low to whisper in his ear.

“That drum by the door. It’s a war drum. I noticed one during the last fight.” He still bore a bruised cut against his cheek from where a goblin struck him with a rock from above. Astarion stared at it for a moment before his eyes travelled to look at the drum in question.

“Strike it with one of your arrows.”

“Are you kidding? They’ll attack us, you fool.” Astarion scoffed. Surely Tar’eon wasn’t that stupid.

“Trust me,” Tar’eons gaze dragged from the war drum to Astarion’s red eyes. “As I trust you.”

Astarion scowled and removed his wrist from Tar’eons hold. It was more of a caress than a grip, but Astarion did not care. He looked Tar’eon dead in the eye as he raised his bow and drew it back.

The string snapped forward, propelling the arrow head into the skin of the drum, rendering it useless. He doubted Tar’eon could talk his way out of this one. At least he didn’t mind a little bloodshed.

But somehow, by a miracle, Tar’eon played his role perfectly.

“I’m so sorry, my companion is skittish after the long journey to visit the priestess, he thought he saw a shadow over there! Though, perhaps he did.” Tar’eon chuckled and goblin looked disgruntled but seemed to let it go.

Astarion looked at Tar’eon in shock, surprised he managed to lie his way through so effortlessly. He almost approved.

As they walked to towards the door, Tar’eon stopped, stock still. Astarion paused with him, curious, and he snarled at Wyll who walked into him. Shadowheart looked delighted though. There was a glint in her eyes, like she knew something they didn’t.

“…what did you say about my companion?” Tar’eon turned slowly to the goblin who had greeted them quite hostilely when they walked inside.

“W-what? Nothing. You’re hearing things. Priestess Gut is ahead.” It quickly dismissed. But Tar’eon didn’t look like he heard nothing. What had been said? Astarion hadn’t been focusing well enough to hear it. He didn’t care for their grotesque voices anyway.

Tar’eon turned around completely, his gaze cold, more like ice than fire. His eyes slowly travelled to Shadowheart, who smiled at him. He gave a small nod and Shadowheart unsheathed her crossbow, sinking an arrow into the goblins throat within the span of an inhale.

Like that, the fight ensued. Without a moments hesitation, Tar’eon unsheathed his longsword and slashed across a goblins face.

Strike first, lest you be struck, he supposed.

The group made quick work of the goblins, and Astarion took a few minutes to collect his arrows and loot what he could before Tar’eon stole everything.

“You’re weighing yourself down, you know? I would *love* to lend a hand if you let me.” He insisted, wanting his pick. He got the chest, but Tar’eon raided the goblins dry.

“It’s okay. I can carry more than you.” Tar’eon said like it was obvious, looking down at Astarion. Physically, at least. After all, he was…a lot larger. He could handle more weight, Astarion supposed. It was worth a shot.

“Yes, well…anyway. What shall we do with the bodies?”

“Nothing.” Tar’eon looked down at the slain bodies, and something akin to hunger grew in his gaze. His sword was still coated in blood, and the tip grazed the fingers of a goblin.

He seemed to catch himself and wiped his blade off with a rag, sheathing it.

“I don’t intend to be here long. We have a job to do. Find the Druid, find a cure, and convince the drow to leave my people alone.”

“Convince? You may as well slay the drow like you did the goblins. Might make this whole…process faster.”

“I would like to avoid as much bloodshed as possible.” Tar’eon hummed. Astarion barked a laugh.

“You…are full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“You’ve told me that more than once.”

“And each time, you’ve been covered in blood that isn’t your own.” Astarion mused with a small squint of his eyes, a smile teasing his lips. “What on earth did that goblin say, to break that…beast from its cage.”

Tar’eon narrowed his eyes. Disapproval. Astarion almost cared, but he didn’t.

“…I don’t like these goblins to begin with. But I had planned to be civil. They did not.” Was all he said before he turned with a whip of his tail, opening the door just enough for them to exit, and closing it behind them, least someone find the bodies before they finished their search for the Druid.

Astarion was pissed at the lack of answers, quirking a brow to Wyll who only shrugged. It seemed he hadn't heard the goblins comment either. Great...

He glanced at Shadowheart who was speaking to Tar'eon in a low voice, the tiefling looking around to surveillance the new room they had entered. She knew exactly what the goblin had said, and neither were inviting him into the conversation.

Tar'eon seemed closest to Shadowheart it seemed, and he wondered when the two would shack up together. The Shar worshipper with a tiefling bard...an odd combo, but their personalities melded well. He could wax poetry about her Lady Loss and lady bits, perhaps. He was sure she'd go wild for that sort of thing.

Astarion disliked that she would have more influence over Tar'eon than he would though. It was hard to manipulate someone who's heart and mind were already occupied with another. Unless they'd been dumped. Then it made it a hundred times easier.

The group walked further in, and Tar'eon walked forward with purpose toward the priestess. He heard her name from another goblin and assumed it had to be the priestess they were looking for. Perhaps she could present a cure. Astarion wasn't sure if he trusted the Absolute worshipper to cure them of their little parasite. She seemed rather daft.

But Tar'eon insisted they meet in her quarters and watched her walk off.

He snapped his head suddenly, looking past Shadowheart to the staircase to the right. His gaze met Astarion's and he nodded towards the staircase. Faintly, Astarion could hear crying, moans of pain coming from deeper in the sanctum.

Ah. He wished to play hero again. So be it.

Astarion was learning to just accept it and follow at this point.

The group made their way towards the crying and the scene they came upon was one Astarion was quite...familiar with. A young man was stretched out on a torture device, a rack, with two goblins poking and prodding, asking questions.

Astarion glanced at Tar'eon. He was intrigued by the look of interest in his eyes. He watched as Tar'eon approached the goblins, blending himself into the shadows. It was in his nature to hide amongst them. To observe. Right now, all he wanted to do was observe.

To watch as Tar'eon took a blunt instrument up and convinced the guards to learn from a 'professional'. The cry of pain from the mans lips almost had him feeling sympathy. If only because he too did not like having any blunt force trauma to his genitalia.

It made the goblins leave though when Tar'eon threatened them with the same punishment if he did not allow him to do his 'job' in peace.

They were scarce in moments, and Astarion watched Tar'eon with interest, to see if he'd continue his punishment, and for a moment, he almost thought he would. But like he was shaking off the temptation, he shook his head and dropped the club. He picked the lock of the rack and helped the man down, his hands gentle, his words equally so as he requested information on the druid, Halsin.

Liam blabbered about a Nightsong before he ducked away into the shadows, disappearing. Tar'eon frowned.

"I hope he makes it out safely."

"Oh? Do you?" Astarion mused with a smirk. "I never would have guessed." He chuckled and stepped out of the shadows. "And if those guards come back to check on the prisoner? What then?"

"He escaped after we left him." Tar'eon said plainly, like he was used to lying so blatantly.

"And if they don't believe us?"

"Then we eliminate the army intent on the grove ourselves." He said it with such conviction, with a gaze so steely, that Astarion almost believed him. Like his own conviction was enough to get them through a whole army of goblins.

"...That would be quite troublesome. But fun. I do love a good bloodbath."

"You just enjoy blood."

"Only the finest." Astarion insisted, a hand to his chest like he was offended by the notion that he ate anything less than he deserved. Until recently, he had. Tar'eon was quite the upgrade if he was honest.

Tar'eon quirked a small smile, his eyes almost...fond? And directed at Astarion of all people. The man truly was surprising.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Astarion had nothing to say to that smile, and Tar'eon seemed to take that as the end of their conversation, continuing his walk down the hallway.

Perhaps there was still a chance to gain Tar'eons favour...his protection. His loyalty. It wouldn't be a hard feat. But Astarion only knew one way to make anyone listen to him, and in this case, hopefully only him. He wasn't sure Tar'eon would take him up on a night alone. He seemed like the 'only hand holding before marriage' kind of guy sometimes, and yet he could have such a cruel streak at the most surprising of moments. He was an enigma, like two different people were stuck in the same body. The hero and the beast. He wondered if he could at least convince this beastly side to take him up on the offer.

He'd met many people in his long life. Slept with many. From maidens to sadists, he could deal with anything thrown at him.

He would let their juxtaposed leader carve his mark into his pale skin if it meant he could gain the tieflings protection. Wouldn't be the first man to do so. And perhaps, he could use his strengths further into this journey.

He almost ran into said tiefling when the man stopped, as concrete as the walls around them. Astarion scowled, ready to snap at him before he saw what Tar'eon was looking at. An alter...

A Loviatar worshipper. Huh. He hadn't met one of those in a long time.

Tar'eon approached without fear, only curiosity. Had he ever met one of Loviatars worshippers? Astarion wasn't sure.

"Greetings, child." His voice was haughty and Astarion almost wanted to laugh at the way the man tried to talk so high and mighty. "I've met few aside from goblins here."

Tar'eon just stared at the man, and Astarion quirked a brow, waiting.

"Are you also here to assist with the prisoner?"

"I'm only passing through." Tar'eon says with ease, ignoring the goblins witnessing their conversation. Astarion sends them a look that insists they do not bother speaking up, and somehow, it works. Would hate to ruin the fun after all.

"Your tastes must turn to the exotic, if you would stop here by choice." Astarion gave a hum. Indeed. What kind of exotic tastes were their leader hiding from them?

"I was invited to discuss pain and its intricacies, but even I find these goblins crude and well - primitive. Pain without purpose is a terrible thing, wouldn't you agree?"

Tar'eon made a sound like he agreed.

"It's appalling." He agreed, and for once, Astarion couldn't tell if he was lying or not.

"You know the Maiden of Pain? How refreshing, but there is more to us than that." Tar'eon was hanging out his every word, it seemed, and Astarion wasn't sure if he was annoyed or intrigued by that. "Yes, we worship her through pain - often our own. But it is an intimate and loving thing, and one we offer up. If you would permit it...I can show you firsthand."

Astarion stood straighter, more than intrigued now. Surely Tar'eon wouldn't take him up on it. It was a clear invitation to be beaten, and he could not see the appeal - not for someone like the teifling.

For a moment, Tar'eon had that expression again. The same he'd worn the day he took that portal man's hand, before horror set it. The same glint in his eyes as the one he had when he bludgeoned the mans balls on the rack.

Then, it vanished, his expression becoming almost afraid.

"...Okay. Show me, firsthand." He slipped the top half of his armour off over his head and turned to Astarion who was the closest, placing it in his arms with a haunted look in his eyes. He unlaced the shirt beneath and slipped it off. "I think I might deserve it, if nothing else." He murmured and turned to the man.

"Oh, I have something exquisite in mind. Both Loviatar and I are interested in how you handle pain, dear one." The nickname sent a cold chill up his spine. He hated the way it sounded on the mans lips. If he had been addressing him, he would have ripped his tongue out of his mouth. It was still tempting.

But Tar'eon did not react. He stood tall, back straight and tail swinging side to side against the disgusting floor. The drag of it reminded Astarion of defeat. Like Tar'eon was giving something up in this moment. Sacrificing for what was right again.

What was going through his mind right now was impossible to decipher. Where had the playful man from just minutes ago gone?

"And should you delight her, you will most assuredly receive her gracious blessing - trust me. Simply face the wall, and we can begin." The worshippers eyes travelled down the tieflings body, and Tar'eon neither posed or shied from it. Instead, he walked to the wall and faced it without complaint. The muscles of his back flexed and tensed as he rolled his shoulders, letting out a slow breath as they shagged.

He was mentally preparing himself. Astarion watched with hawk-like eyes.

He did not need to fuss over a man he barely knew. If anything, he should enjoy the show. He tasted sweet, and Astarion was sure he sounded just the same when in pain. The link between pleasure and pain was a fine line, and Astarion was curious to know if their leader was the kind of man who liked a little pain. Or could grow to like it, at the very least. Being bitten was not a nice sensation. Fangs piercing your skin hurt. It was painful, like two shards of ice and then a burning fire in your neck.

Yet Tar'eon was offering to let him drink nightly.

At the very least, he was a masochistic hero.

Astarion watched the man breathe and cry out at the first strike, grasping the wall in front of him. He almost stumbled and widened his stance so he wouldn't buckle again, taking in a shaky breath as blood dripped down his back. A mace is no gentle weapon, neither clean nor painless. It slices and rips flesh on impact, and Astarion watches as the red slipped down his back, his mouth pooling with saliva.

He wanted to lick him clean. Shadowheart made a comment, but he found the pumping of Tar'eons blood more appealing to listen to.

The priest seemed ecstastic to hear his voice, his cry, and praised him as he readied another blow. It struck even harder this time, tearing into more skin, over his left shoulder blade. Tar'eon gasped sharply and bit back his voice this time, teeth gritted. His hands fisted against the stone wall. The hem of his pants collected the blood that slipped down his back, the trail that raced down his spine. There was a small pooling in the dimple on his back, above his tail, and Astarion felt a touch...breathless.

His undead heart is racing with the desire to lick the fresh blood off his skin.

"My, my. Who knew our friend had so much blood in them?" Tar'eon actually looked at him, and he couldn't read his expression, but in the dim light, his eyes glowed. He felt pinned in place. He wished desperately to look into his mind, to understand these moments where Tar'eon seems so...not Tar'eon. But the tadpole wouldn't grant him access. Or perhaps Tar'eon wouldn't.

"Try not to lick your lips as you say that." Shadowheart remarked and Astarion smirked. She worshipped Lady Loss. He was sure she found this just as invigorating in her own depraved way. His enjoyment was just more obvious and in tune with his nature. Was it a crime for a vampire to enjoy when others bled?

Astarion gripped the armour tighter as another blow came to his skin. Tar'eon couldn't hold back his cry this time, the mace tearing through more skin, raw and tender and so bloody. After the feeding he had last night, it was a shock to see how much blood was still left for him to ooze out.

"...A child can hit harder than that." Tar'eon breathed, chest heaving, sweat along his brow. He stared ahead at the wall, and Astarion's gaze moved to Wyll who had remained the furthest away from the ritual, looking...sad. Like he pitied Tar'eons 'cleansing'.

Another blow landed and Tar'eons knees finally buckled, forehead against the cool wall, claws digging into the cracks in the stone as his body trembled from the pain. Such a large man...taken apart by four blows from a mace? Astarion almost couldn't believe it.

Wyll broke through the crowd as the priest took a step back, looking disappointed at the withholding of his pain. The man crouched beside Tar'eon, offering him a hand.

"Are you alright...?" Tar'eon looked up at Wyll, looking flushed and sweaty. He took the hand offered to him and groaned softly as he stood, stumbling into Wyll's shoulder and resting there for a moment, simply breathing slowly. Wyll went to place his hand on his back and thought better of it last moment, curling it into a fist and dropping it down to his side.

"We should rest. You should rest."

"I will be fine."

"You're in no shape to fight if needs be" Wyll hissed into his ear, and Tar'eon shook his head.

"I will force myself to be. Wyll - I needed this. Okay?"

"You needed to let him beat you down like a dog?" Wyll's eyes narrowed at the priest as Tar'eon stood up straighter, his hand still on Wyll's shoulder to keep steady. Astarion watched the pair. Since when were those two so closely knitted together? Maybe because they were both heroic at heart...sickening.

"You heard him. He needed this. He cleansed himself. I'm afraid the Maiden of Pain cannot bestow her blessing, since he chose to withhold his complete self from this ritual, but...it was certainly necessary nonetheless, wasn't it, dear one?"

Tar'eon turned his hollow gaze to the worshipper.

"...Yes. It was. Thank you."

"Did you enjoy yourself, child?"

"Not all pain is to be enjoyed." Tar'eon chuckled sardonically, moving over to Astarion now. Astarion still desired to lick the dripping blood off his skin, but now, he found himself equally interested in his words. "Sometimes pain is simply necessary."

The priest chuckled and seemed to allow that, turning back to his weapons, his implements of pain.

Tar'eon took the shirt from Astarion and his face screwed up in pain as he slipped it back on, taking a moment to simply breathe through it. Shadowheart stepped forward.

"Let me..." Her hand glowed as she reached out, but Tar'eon grabbed her wrist and shook his head. Shadowhearts lips thinned, but the glow vanished.

"Interesting. I'm starting to think you really do enjoy the pain, darling. The rituals over, let the cleric knit you back together, and let us go spill more...less appetising blood." The armour was lifted from his hands and Tar'eon stared down at him.

"...Let us set up camp."

#bg3 tav #dark urge #astarion x tav #astarion x dark urge #astarion x male tav #astarion x mc #astarion bg3 #bg3 spoilers #?#bg3 fanfiction

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gotnofucks · 3 years

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The Unreformed Rake

Pairing: soft!dark Ransom Drysdale x Reader

Summary: Ransom Drysdale is a notorious rake, but he seems to have taken a shine to you. When he plans to make you his, nothing would stand in his way. No is not a word he understands.

Words: 3k

Warnings: Slightly dubcon touching, fingering, semi-public touching, forced marriage hinted, 18 + Only

A/N: This is my submission to Siri’s 5k Softdark challenge. Congratulations love @stargazingfangirl18 , you do us hoes so proud and keep our punanis so happy! I chose the prompt “Come on, just a little taste”. It’s highlighted in the text.

If your corset was a millimeter more tighter, you’d be dead. The mammas cared more about getting their daughters married off than about them making it alive through the ball. You were glad that as a second daughter you didn’t have too many eyes on you. All you had to do was let three to four men twirl you around the dancefloor to appease your mother, and then you could sit back and enjoy watching your older sister Anika try to catch a husband.

Mostly, the balls weren’t too bad. You got to meet with your friends and eat some delicious food without the constant supervision of your mother, sometimes you’d even find a decent dance partner who wouldn’t step on your toes or whose hands wouldn’t wander south of your back. You could have made it through the evening unscathed had one handsome rake not made an appearance.

The moment Lord Huge Ransom Drysdale stepped into the hall, all eyes were on him. And his were on you. He made a spectacular vision, donning the bright colours that most gentlemen stayed away from, and yet he looked more masculine than any of them. The eyes of every unwed lady followed his movements, their mothers urging them to approach him despite his reputation.

Everyone knew Huge Ransom Drysdale was a notorious rake; his stories were told at tea parties in hushed tones and often accompanied by giggles. He was proficient in the art of leaving a trail of broken hearts and stuttering men, but more than that, he was a master at getting under your skin. His eyes hadn’t left you for a moment, fixating on you and your current dance partner who was glued to your side like lichens to rock.

“You dance most marvelously Miss Y/N, would you do me the honour of the next one too?” He asked, looking smitten at you.

“Now now Allen, you wouldn’t hog Miss Y/N’s attention all for yourself, would you?” Lord Drysdale’s mocking voice carried over to you, the man walking languidly until he stood before you. “There are a number of other ladies in want of a partner, if you’d be kind enough to relent Miss Y/N’s hand to me.”

Allen bowed to him, recognizing the superior title and the man who held it. Placing a small kiss on the back of your hand, he beat a hasty retreat from you side like the coward you knew him to be. Lord Drysdale chuckled, raising a brow at you before offering you his arm. You had half a mind to turn your nose at him and storm away, but your mother would have conniptions if she learnt you said no to a Lord.

“You have a lot of nerve and no tact Your Lordship” You said in a whisper, allowing him to grip your hand and bring you closer. The music began and he spun you out gracefully before bringing you back into his body, much closer than was socially acceptable. His fingers were firm around yours, the hand on your waist tight, singeing the flesh underneath with his touch.

“You know I am a tactless bastard, that shouldn’t be news to you.” He said with a charming smile that could fool anybody but you. He put a façade better than any theater artist you knew. He led you around the other dancing bodies dexterously, not looking away from your face. After a moment, he abruptly asked, “Who were those three morons you danced with earlier? Didn’t I sent word that you must keep your dance card empty but for me?”

An appalled gasp escaped you and it was with restraint you kept yourself from bolting away from him. “Are you having me watched?”, You hissed in anger, wrinkling your forehead. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Of course I have people keeping an eye on you. Can’t let anything happen to my future wife.”

Because you couldn’t leave, you did the next best thing. You stepped on his toe with all your might, digging your hell into his feet until he groaned in pain. He retaliated by moving his hand from your waist to your backside, giving a firm squeeze to your ass that had you choking on a scandalized scream.

“Hugh!” You chided through gritted teeth, looking around quickly to see if someone had noticed. Amidst the sea of dancers, nobody focused on you alone, but it would be enough to ruin a lady’s reputation.

“You know that’s not what you call me.”

His blue eyes turned darker, more challenging and predatory as he leaned closer until his chest brushed against you. You struggled, trying to put distance between you as discreetly as possible but he wouldn’t give.

“Let go!” You said, digging your nails into his shoulder to no avail. The thick padding of his clothes prevented any harm.

“Say my name.”

It was an order, one that if not met would hold consequences. People thought they knew the philandering Lord Drysdale, but they had little inkling to the danger that resided just beneath the surface. You knew. Your gaze dropped away from his, head a little bowed in defeat.

“Ransom.” You whispered, and he let out a shuddering breath as if his name on your lips had taken away more from himself than from you. He wouldn’t let you address him as anything else, not you who he claimed would be wearing his ring soon.

The dance slowed to a stop, people clapping, and you pushed away from him, halfheartedly joining in the applause. Ransom stood too close, his hand on your waist still fast and you slapped it away in irritation.

“Look, just stay away from me. I don’t want mamma to see us together.” You said, weaving through the throngs of people and trying to escape him. He followed, keeping at your heels with no problem, playfully pulling at your sleeve.

“Stay away?” He scoffed, almost as if in wonder of your audacity to even demand that. “You’re gonna be Lady Drysdale soon, you need to get used to my presence. I will always be close. Very close.”

You turned on him, raising a finger and wagging it in his face. Heat was settling over your face and neck, seeping beneath your neckline and into your chest that was heaving. Ransom’s eyes trained on the rise and fall of your breast, a wolfish grin on his face as he licked his lips in appreciation and anticipation.

“I am not going to marry you Ransom!” You yelled in a whisper, amazed at his arrogance. “You keep away from me.”

In a second his fingers encircled your wrist, pulling you away from the floor into the shadowy corners as you protested. Sweeping aside the curtains, he pushed you into an alcove, pressing you in deeper with his body as the curtains fell again to shield you from curious eyes.

“We’ll have to do something about that mouth of yours.” He hissed cruelly, caging you between his massive arms. “You can’t go around speaking to me like this.”

His face neared yours, eyes dark and dangerous as they glared into you, his mouth opening slowly. You knew what was going to happen and you turned your face at the last second, his lips finding your cheek instead. Warm breath fanned your already heated skin, a flutter of butterflies setting your nerves astray.

“Stop! This isn’t proper.” You said, squirming as Ransom refused to back away. He chuckled in derision, forcefully turning your face to his. You hated how he still looked so beautiful, despite the sneer and arrogance.

“Wouldn’t be the first time we did it. Or did you forget about those stolen moments after the lakeside picnics? What about those walks in the park where I’d press you into a bark of tree and ravish this sinful mouth? We’re long past proper my darling, and the only reason your virtue is intact is because I am affording you the dignity to keep it until our wedding night.”

Your gaze lowered in mortification, those shameful moments coming back to you as flashes behind your eyelids. He had been far too powerful, too intense to refuse. In your weakness, you’d allowed him liberties that made guilt settle like weight on your chest every time your mother bragged about your modesty to other mammas.

“That was my mistake, Ransom. I’m supposed to marry a man of impeccable standing, someone who holds everyone’s good opinion. After Anika gets herself a man, it’ll be me, and my mother would never marry me off to a rake like you.”

His chest expanded in indignation under your hands, and he held you steady as he ground himself against you. Anger, jealousy, and sheer disbelief at your words was evident in his glare, and you shivered in fear as his lips skimmed over your jaw.

“You will marry me, mamma or no mamma. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to make you mine.” He promised, eyes glinting in warning. “What’s that saying? A reformed rake makes the best husband, ain’t it?”

“You’re not reformed.” You countered, captive in his hold. A part of you that you refused to acknowledge didn’t want to leave at all.

“That’s true.” Ransom said, smirking. “I am a rake, its time I play to my reputation.”

He kissed you hard, his tongue pushing past your lips without preamble. You couldn’t help moaning into his mouth, your fingers clutching his collar for dear life, knees threatening to collapse as he kissed you like a man starved. You knew he had a talented tongue by his charming words, but there was more to it than merely speaking. He discovered you, explored you like an untouched cave and brought you back to life.

Nobody could make you feel like he did. You had no patience for conceited, blustering men, but Ransom was more than that. He was a force that overpowered your life like winds did to fallen leaves. He carried you with himself, unrelenting, persistent. He was passionate and hungry, he was obsessed. After the first time he had kissed you in the park, he promised he wouldn’t kiss anyone again. He promised he’d make you his, and that if any man tried to claim what belonged to him, it would end in a duel.

In his kiss, you felt his possessiveness. You felt his raw power and lust that had led you to sin on more than one occasion. Saying no to him was difficult, mainly because you were most yourself when with him. He gave you wings unknowingly. He gave you the freedom to rebel unknowingly. To him, it was your claiming. But hadn’t you claimed him too in one kiss? Hadn’t you transformed the rake into a marriageable sort in one kiss?

“Ransom, we can’t.” You breathed against his lips, both your mouths swollen and glistening.

“Yes we can. We will.”

His hand ventured south of your neck, dipping into your neckline and brushing against the plump swell of your breast. You sputtered, not knowing if you were urging him or objecting. He pressed you hard into the wall, trailing his lips from your neck to your chest, sucking and nibbling with utmost patience and care. You whimpered at his assault, soft mewls spilling from your mouth and you rested your head back, unable to control the heat that simmered in your core.

“There is no power in the world that can stop me from making you my wife.” He said, looking right into your eyes as he sharply pulled and tore a rip into your bodice. You screeched, thumping your fists against his chest before he gathered them in one arm and held them above your head. “This is just a preview of what will happen between us when you take my ring and name.”

Pushing away the limp fabric from your breast, his mouth enveloped your nipple in one fell swoop. You cried out in pleasure, his warmth spreading into your own body and you feared you’d burn. A fire was simmering between your legs, wet and wanting, chanting his name. His teeth gently grazed your nipple, causing you to whimper, a sound he captured in his mouth.

“Look at me.” He ordered, and you opened your eyes without having realized they were closed. The blue in his had never been darker, almost black like the night sky that swallowed down everything in its path.

“Please don’t.” You begged. “I have sisters whose reputation are tied with mine. You’ll ruin us all.”

Ransom smiled, and you gulped because he looked almost tender. As his fingers trailed down your front to gather the layers of skirt above your knees, he bumped his nose in yours. “Never. I am a Thrombey-Drysdale. I’ll take you, and I’ll save your family. Everything I own is yours.”

The look in his eyes was such that you didn’t protest as he traced your thighs, approaching the apex. He didn’t look away as he reached your moist core, nor when he found your sensitive nub and ran circles around it with his fingers. You moaned, biting your lip to stifle your voice as his breathing picked up. Your scent filled the small niche you were in, his chest digging into yours, hand buried between your legs.

A strangled cry did escape when you felt him at your weeping entrance, threatening to breach the untouched walls of your virtue. You shook your head, asking him not to cross the boundary that will change everything between you.

“Come on, just a little taste.” He urged, pressing inside with one finger. He delved in slowly, his intrusion felt against the spongy walls of your sex and you trembled. You were panting you realized, hips gyrating almost subconsciously to mirror his movements.

“Ransom” You moaned, pushing forward. You had to do something, anything. You felt about ready to combust.

“I know. I know. Look at me and remember the pleasure I can give you. Remember the love I will shower on you.”

Another finger joined the first, stretching you until it burnt. You held onto his arms, breath coming in sharp intervals as he moved in and out, the obscene sounds of your essence mixing in with your laboured breathing.

“Do you feel the fire my darling?” Ransom asked, and you nodded. He rested his forehead on yours, forcing you to meet his eyes as he sped up, the heel of his hand digging into your nub. “Look into my eyes and let go. Come, now.”

Your back arched and your pressed forward into his body, quacking in pleasure as sensations that had no name wrecked your whole body. Your teeth sank into his neck to hold in your scream, whole body vibrating and undulating in ecstasy. You remained like this until you caught your breath, sweat gathering above your lips and brow. He looked ravenously at you. He looked in awe too.

Raising his hand, he showed you his fingers soaked in your wetness and slowly he brought them to his mouth and sucked. You gulped, suddenly feeling empty as Ransom closed his eyes in the relish of your taste. When he finally looked at you again, you knew you were lost. The wolf had had his taste of blood. There was no escaping.

He kissed you slow and soft, sharing your taste with you and pulling you closer into him. It didn’t seem like he would part. For all you knew, the world had burnt away leaving only this niche in the wall intact, two people who were just learning to explore each other the only ones alive.

“Do you know, or should I say?” He asked, and you sucked in a breath. Who would have thought this day would come?

“Say it.” You answered. You knew, oh yes. But you needed to hear. You needed to watch those beautiful lips curve around words that bound you to him in something far more potent than marriage.

“I love you.” He said, sincerely, truly and with no hesitation. He loved you. Lord Hugh Ransom Drysdale loved you. Your eyes glistened with unshed tears and you stood on your toes to brush a kiss against his lips.

“I love you, Your Lordship.”

His arms came around you so strong that they felt like chains. You stayed in his embrace, disheveled and disoriented. You never expected your evening would have ended like this.

“Remember my love, then. And forgive me.” Ransom said. Before you could ask him what he meant, he threw apart the curtains that contained your sin and bared you to the world. The first person gasped aloud, and then ten more. You stood paralyzed, holding a hand against your chest to conceal the peeking flesh behind.

Ransom stood before you, nonchalant. Whispers flew around, taking the form of a vicious wind that swept across the ballroom until your mother was running towards you, scandalized. She took one look at you and staggered back, falling behind on the people who rushed forward to help.

“You – no. It couldn’t be.” She sobbed, holding a hand to her heart as if asking it to stay inside. You couldn’t say anything, shame written on every part of you. Ransom cleared his throat before looking at you softly, uncaring of others who gossiped when his lips pressed on your forehead.

“I plan to do right by Miss Y/N.” He announced, removing his coat and draping it around you. Pulling you out from the alcove, he put an arm around you and tugged you at his side. He glanced at you mother who was on the verge of fainting, a small tilt to his lips. “Madam, with your blessings, I would like to wed your daughter and make her an honest woman.”

You hid your face into his chest, not bothering to see your mother’s response. He had compromised you. He had ruined you. Ransom Drysdale didn’t take a no, and he fought hard for what he wanted.

“I hate you.” You whispered, heartbroken. Had he waited, you’d have said yes yourself. Ransom read the question in your gaze and stroked the curve of your cheek.

“I have done my waiting. No more of it. You’re mine now.”

#siris5ksoftdarkchallenge #soft!dark ransom drysdale x reader #dark!ransom x reader #ransom drysdale x reader #soft!dark ransom drysdale #ransom x reader #ransom thrombey x reader #ransom drysdale

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young-dumb-and-vaccinated · 3 years

Text

A Deafened Bard (Stephen Strange x Female!Reader) pt. 2

Doctor Strange and y/n confide their tragic backstories in one another. Y/n struggles with her feelings for him.

Trigger warnings: abusive parenting, use of firearms, discussion of death and grief, mention of alcoholism

"On the outside, always looking in

Will I ever be more than I've always been?

Cause I'm tap, tap, tapping on the glass-"

You stopped yourself before you could indulgently belt out the titular lyric.

"Ew, why was I singing that?" You muttered to yourself. "I don't even like that song."

You knew, subconsciously, that it was because you were trying to avoid what you really wanted to sing. For the first time ever, you had an audience. Someone was paying attention.

"Love of my life, you've hurt me-"

"Oh, come on, butterfingers." He interrupted. "Love of my Life by Freddie Mercury. Give me something hard."

"I wasn't aware it was classic rock trivia night."

"Then why were you staring straight at me while singing?" He smirked.

"Was I?" You cocked your head, expertly deflecting his implication. "I'm so spaced out I don't even know where I'm looking."

"It's Freddie Mercury." He insisted.

"Uh, yes and no." You corrected, drawing on your encyclopedic knowledge of Queen from one particularly weird summer in high school. "While Freddie Mercury wrote the song, it was recorded on a Night at the Opera. Which was accredited to the whole band."

"That's a nitpick," he shook his head. "I'm still right."

You couldn't wear your heart on your sleeve anymore. You could only distract him with 70s glam rock trivia for so long before he started to notice a pattern. Although a sappy love song was in your heart, you sang the anthem of the depressed theater kid.

You were staring straight at him, though. But who wouldn't? You studied his features only for artistic inspiration. His sharp jaw and high, high cheekbones were… inspiring.

You couldn't lie to yourself. You fell and fell hard.

"Butterfingers!" Master Strange called out from the other side of the sanctum. "I need you!"

You dropped your pencil and pushed yourself out from the chair. "Coming!"

You followed the voice into his chambers. This was a new development, you thought. Out of respect for his privacy, you'd never dared to snoop around in his bedroom. But this was practically a written invitation.

The room was spotless. Not a book or a scrap of paper out of place. Nor was there much to look at at all. A handful of picture frames, some magazines from when he was a surgeon, all featuring himself on the cover.

"Butterfingers!" He called again, as if he knew you were about to snoop.

"I'm here!" You yelled back, eyes wandering around the room. "What do you need?"

"I left my watch somewhere in the library!" He sounded disproportionately panicked for what was just a minor inconvenience. "I need you to go get it for me."

"What does it look like?" You asked.

"It's a $27,000 watch." He snapped impatiently. "It looks like one."

"Jesus." You cursed.

"Don't give me that shit, [F/N]." He ordered, slamming his fist down against the sink. "Just do what you're goddamn told."

"Alright, alright!" You put your hands up. "Fine, I'll get it."

You hurried down the stairs and into the library. On the floor between his favorite chair and a stack of musty old books was a slim, silvery watch with a plain black band.

You picked it up and examined it. Apart from the price tag, was there really any reason for him to be so worried about it? He knew exactly where he left it. Did he have reason to believe it wouldn't be there when he returned?

All you needed to do was flip it over to get your answer. You read the inscription on the back.

Time will tell how much I love you -- Christine

You should have known that his massive ego wouldn’t keep the women away forever. Hell, it certainly didn’t deter you. Much uglier douchebags have gotten far prettier girlfriends than they deserved.

You closed your fingers around the watch and sighed. The fantasy you created for yourself, of slowly, deliberately earning his love was shattered. Christine already beat you to it, it seemed. You tried to smother the part of you that resented this person for her exclusive right to Master Strange's affections. You didn't know her, but you loathed her. And you felt filthy for it.

With a heavy heart, you brought the stupid, criminally expensive little timepiece back to its rightful owner.

"Here's your all-important watch, master." You mumbled, placing it on the bedside table.

"I know I told you I would give you space to question things," He said, swiping it from the table and expertly affixing it around his wrist. "But I'd really appreciate it if you didn't question this."

You tried to sound as non-passive-aggressive as you could. You attempted a more forgiving tone, but you couldn't hide your hurt. "It's fine. I don't care."

"I didn't mean to get short with you, [F/N]." His voice softened. "I'm sorry. But this watch-"

"It's fine." You cut him off, peering at the floor.

"It was a gift." He finished anyway.

You felt the lump in your throat rising. You knew what the watch represented and you wanted to smash it to pieces. Along with the sting of rejection, you felt the sting of tears in your eyes. "I know. I saw the engraving."

"She died two years ago." He lowered his head.

Suddenly, all your ill will towards this woman turned into guilt.

"I'm sorry to hear that." You said. "I can't imagine what it's like to lose someone who loved you so much."

"She had agreed to come to a speaking engagement with me. As a second chance, and-" Pain wrapped his voice. He closed his hand tightly around the watch and held it close to his chest. "Have you ever been in love before, [F/N]?"

From the way your heart ached, and how easily the thought of never being with him made you cry, you knew the answer. You'd been avoiding speaking it into being thus far, but you couldn't lie to yourself anymore.

"Yes." You whispered.

"You'll learn soon enough." He muttered. "It only brings more suffering."

The tears finally breached and you tried to blink them away. You didn't know what emotion was causing them: guilt, shame, contempt, anger, sadness-- they were all present.

"Master Strange, I-" you stuttered, tripping over your breath. "I respect what you've gone through, I really do, but it's not fair to take it out on me."

"You're right." He conceded. "I'm sorry. Please, go get some sleep.”

You nodded. “Right.”

You slept as late as you could get away with the next morning. In apprentice terms, that only meant sleeping until eight thirty. Your dailies could wait an extra hour while you laid in bed, feeling like garbage.

You stumbled down the spiral staircase in your pajamas. No bra, no makeup and no effort. You didn’t even run a brush through your hair. Why try, you thought. Why make an effort for the man who would never see you as anything but the help?

When you saw the piano, though, you did a full 180.

In the living area was a French cherry baby grand piano that definitely was not there before. You certainly would have noticed it before. You placed your phone on the counter and approached the new addition.

As if the memories were woven into the very muscles and ligaments of your fingers, you ran down a few octaves of C Major. The keys were smooth as porcelain and the sound that emanated from the instrument was next to heavenly.

A bright orange post-it note was stuck to the music rack.

“Love of my Life”, Queen, A Night at the Opera. 1975

Was this a request, or an admission of wrong? Whatever the case, it made you smile.

"You weren't being entirely honest with me, Butterfingers." He said, randomly materializing behind you.

You turned around on the piano bench and looked up at him. "What was I not honest about?"

"I'm so glad you asked." He sat down on the bench next to you, phone in hand. "Because when you said you used to play piano, you didn't specify you were actually a student prodigy."

Sure enough, on his phone, he was scrolling through your Instagram. Dozens of videos of a much younger [F/N] playing hundreds of different songs, singing with too many vocal runs and doing so with the entire content of her soul behind the music.

"Student prodigy is a bit strong." You turned your head to hide your blush.

He scrolled up and found a picture of a young, zit-faced teenage [F/N] holding an acceptance letter. "Last I checked, Juilliard doesn't give full-ride scholarships to just anyone."

You covered your face with your hands, smothering an embarrassed smile. "God, please. I'd rather you'd found my OnlyFans."

He raised his eyebrows. "As tempting as that sounds, I'd still rather hear your explanation on this. Why did you give up on something you loved?"

You looked at him in surprise. "You really want to know?"

"Well, I told you mine." He playfully nudged you in the side.

You took a deep breath in. "Well, it was about two years ago, now-”

"Cheers to you, [F/N]!" Your best friend Holly raised her glass of champagne in your direction. "Juilliard ain't gonna know what hit ‘em."

"I'll drink to that." You said, bring your own flute up to your lips and taking a swig. You wretched in disgust as the vile liquid ran down your throat. "Or maybe I won't."

"You're gonna have to get used to it." Holly nudged you with her elbow. "I think most professional musicians are alcoholics."

You narrowed your eyes at her. "I don't think that's right."

"Is too." She smirked. "Conductors are mad strict. Abusive even. Drive musicians to drink all the time."

You laughed. "Is everything you know about the world of music from Whiplash?"

"And The Perfection." She added.

"Thank you, Holly." You said, attempting to take another sip of champagne, purely for dramatic effect. "Very cool."

You felt a pair of hands on your shoulders. "Hi, Holly. Enjoying the party?"

Holly took a step back. "Hey, Mrs. [L/N]. Yeah, it's great."

"I hope you don't mind," Your mom said, her fake nice voice eeking through her clenched teeth. "I need to borrow [F/N] for a few minutes."

Holly's face fell. "Sure. I'll catch up with you later, [F/N]."

Your mother tugged you off to the side. With a stressed huff, she began. "Jason is out in the fields with his ROTC friends."

"And what do you want me to do about that?" You asked, knowing her drunk self couldn't read your sarcastic tone.

"Could you go get him and bring him home?" She said, squeezing your upper arm.

"Are you kidding?" You spat.

"[F/N], he's drunk." She scolded. "Do you want him to get another strike on his record?"

"I don't care." You mumbled under your breath. "Have him call an uber. Hell, let him sleep it off in the field. Not my problem."

"You know what he's like when he's drunk." She rationalized. "He gets rowdy. It had better be you."

You tensed up. "No. Holly and I are going to the French Quarter. I don't have time to babysit Jason."

"Just pick him up on your way there?" She pleaded. "It won't take long."

You knew this wasn't going to stop. "Fine, but this is the last time."

You were both dressed far too well to be trekking through the swampy ass nowhere when you should have been fucking your way through the French Quarter. Luckily for your evening plans, all you needed to do was follow the sound of gunshots.

You slammed the car door shut and Holly followed suit. Finding him was the easy part. The hard part was hauling his drunk ass back home.

"Fun's over, shithead." You announced, heels sinking into the sod as you spoke. You didn't have much trouble projecting over the gunfire and getting their attention.

"Shit, [F/N]?" Jason sputtered, so drunk he could barely keep his head straight.

"Holy shit, I didn't even recognize you in that dress." One of his dumb fuck friends added. He jabbed Jason in the side. "Why didn't you tell me your sister's hot?"

"Buster, I-'' You clenched your teeth. "I don't care if you live or die, but my mom needs me to bring Jason home."

"If you get in the car now, we won't have to use the chloroform." Holly added.

Jason scratched the back of his head with the barrel of his gun, then pointed it at you. "You're gonna have to make me."

"Jesus fucking Christ!" You exclaimed, hitting the deck. "What the fuck, Jason!?"

Jason and his dumbass friends laughed. "You should have seen the look on your face, [F/N]!"

"Put down the fucking gun-" You seethed. "And get in the fucking car."

He lowered the gun and looked like he was going to concede. Just when you thought he would cooperate, he stuck it up again. He keeled over in a fit of laughter when you and Holly panicked again.

"Look at them!" He shouted. "They're so fucking scared!"

You knew out in the middle of the swamp, nobody could hear you scream. So you used it to your advantage.

"Jason, you're going in the car, or under it." You raised your voice. "I will mow your drunk ass down like eight day old roadkill right here in this field and you will be LUCKY if anyone finds your bloated, shit-covered remains before the crocodiles get a whiff of you."

That seemed to get his attention.

"Sorry, boys." He pouted. "You heard her."

He had to 'get you' one final time, though. Only that time, the gun went off. Just centimeters from your ear. You clutched the side of your head, trying to drown out the deafening ringing with your screams.

You vaguely remembered Holly pistol-whipping Jason before loading you into the car to drive you to the hospital, leaving him desolate and drunk in the field.

"It was a one-in-a-million shot." The otolaryngologist tried not to sound impressed at what was clearly some kind of anomaly very few got to witness in a medical career. "When the bullet fired, the gunpowder traveled down your ear canal, burning the cells of your auditory nervous system and... singing your eardrum... clean off."

Your eyes widened. "Off?!"

The doctor lowered her head. "I'm sorry, Miss [L/N]. I'm afraid you'll never return to full hearing again."

You didn't want to kill the messenger. You knew she was only doing her job. "Are you fucking kidding me?!"

"If we could do a tympanoplasty, which, given the condition of the drum, is unlikely-" she began. "There would still be no way to fully repair the hair cells along the ear canal."

You took deep breaths to try and quell your simmering rage. "I'm leaving for Juilliard in three months."

"Hearing aid technology has improved significantly over the last decade." She said, a somewhat hopeful upturn in her voice.

That was when your mother decided to join in on the conversation. "Oh, we can't afford that."

You thought you were going to crush your teeth into bits from how tightly your jaw was clenched in fury. "Take it out of Jason's college fund, then."

"Oh, [F/N]." She said as if you had just told the funniest joke imaginable. "Please. That wouldn't be fair to Jason."

"You can afford to send that blithering idiot to the Citadel." You hissed. "You can afford to buy me a hearing aid so I can play piano."

"Beethoven was entirely deaf." Your mom pointed out. "And he became the greatest composer of all time. It's really just mind over matter, sweetie-"

"Sure, that makes perfect sense!" You plastered on a deranged smile, feeling driven to the brink of madness. "I can repair my destroyed eardrum with the power of positive thinking! Jason gets thirty-five thousand dollars a year to play soldier, but I have to just use my imagination."

She covered her face with her hands as if she was being attacked and went into kicked-puppy mode. "Don't be mad at Jason, [F/N]. He didn't mean to hurt you-"

"Fuck this." You said, releasing all your tension in those two words. "Fuck all of this. I'm tired of you defending that chauvinist asshole. The next time you see me will be when one of us is dead."

"Where are you going?!" She wailed.

You snatched your purse from the table and threw it over your shoulder. "I'm moving out."

“Disgraced at age nineteen?" Master Strange said, leaning back on the piano. "Let me guess, you turned to alcohol to cope?"

"You'd think, but actually no." You shook your head. The tone of the conversation had taken a sharp left turn from sadness to dry, apathetic amusement. "I probably would have if I could have afforded it."

"You missed out." He said. "Drinking a whole bottle of eighty year old scotch was definitely the highlight of my grieving period."

You'd never joined the clauses 'Master Strange' and 'drunk off his ass' in the same sentence before then. It was an odd mental picture for sure. One you needed to see to believe.

"I got desperate." You admitted. "Luckily, New Orleans had a lot to offer someone like me, so I didn't have to go far to find people claiming to have answers. But it was all essential oils, incense, binaural beats-"

"I'm sorry," he cut in. "What kind of dickhead suggests binaural beats to someone with only one functioning ear?"

You threw up your hands. "Right? Doesn't make sense. Anyway, I came across a woman named Mistress Fantina and she pointed me in the right direction. How to heal my body through control of my spirit."

He looked at you with that fascination of the human body characteristic of those in the medical field. "It worked, I assume?"

"I figured it out." You shrugged. "But I got so invested in the Mystic Arts that I forgot all about Juilliard. Became a full-time student. Ever since, I never once thought about returning to my old life."

"I suppose if I'd discovered this world because I had lost, say, my ability to perform surgery, it would be hard to leave it behind and return to the operating room." He thought out loud. Sighing, he closed his hand over his watch. "But no matter how medical science evolves, you can't reverse death."

You let the quiet linger for a moment.

#doctor strange #doctor strange x you #doctor strange x reader #stephen strange x reader #doctor stephen strange #stephen strange #dr stephen strange #stephen strange x you #what if #what if marvel #doctor strange supreme #tw guns #tw abusive parent

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alyssadeliv · 3 years

Text

The Forgotten One

First Previous

Chapter 12

They were going to the zoo. Richard had decided that after two months of her living in the Manor it was time to have some family bonding time. It didn’t matter that most of her time in the last months was used to get to know her new extended family or get reacquainted with her old one.

He was adamant that she needed the full Gothamite experience, so here they were on a Friday afternoon on a crowded metro, listening as the oldest one tried and explained how Metro’s worked to her. He was so happy, gesticulating and smiling, that she didn’t have the heart to tell him that she indeed knew how the metro worked, having lived in Paris for almost two full years.

After Damian, Richard was her favorite sibling, mostly because she had always seen him as a role model, as part of her training had been inspired by him and his trapeze maneuvers, but she did enjoy the warmth that she tended to feel when he was around. He was patient and had no problem explaining pop culture references to her. Not that she didn't enjoy spending time with her other siblings, it was just that Richard went out of his way to make her feel accepted.

Tim was a very busy person, and their interactions were reserved to 3 a.m. coffee hunts. He wasn’t bad, just closed off, and a little wary of her after his first experience with Damian. Not that she could blame him. But she was a bit closer to his girlfriend, Stephanie Brown, who would come to have dinner at the Manor every week.

And there was Jason. She refused to address him as her brother, that would just be plain weird. After the initial shock of finding each other again had worn out, it had taken a few weeks for them to finally address the elephant in the room. She could tell that he had struggled with the news that she was Bruce’s biological daughter.

“Dick, maybe speed the lecture a bit so we can still get to the zoo before it closes.” Jason was leaning casually against a wall, finding this whole situation funny. He was wearing jeans and his red leather jacket, nothing special, but if she was honest he looked rather handsome.

“It’s fine Jaybird, I was just wrapping it up!” He says with a smile, just in time for them to catch the next wagon. Because they spent at least 25 minutes listening to Richard’s lesson, the metro had emptied a bit so they were able to find seats. It was just the three of them, the others would meet them there, after being picked up by Alfred, Damian after school, and Timothy after a meeting.

“So… I know Bruce said not to ask, but I’ve been dying to know…” Richard starts unsure, afraid to cross a line. They were lucky to score seats in the same section, she was seated with Jason by her side, with Richard in front of him facing them both. “But how exactly did you two meet, I mean it was obviously at… Tibet-'' He caught himself before he could out them as members of the League, you never knew who could be listening in their conversation, so better safe than sorry. “- but why do you know Jason, but Damian didn’t?”

With a glance to the side, she was more than happy to allow Jason to explain that part. In the two months she lived at the Manor she saw how much they wanted to ask about their relationship, but kept their distance. Aside from Damian, they didn’t feel the need to inform the family about their past.

“Well, Pixie Pop here was the one to train me for the duration of my time in the Temple. Kicked my ass more times than I can count.” He says with a smirk, while casually butting an arm on the back of her seat. “She taught me most of what I know”

“Most of it?” She was indignant, but the smile on her face betrayed her true emotions.

“To be fair B didn’t totally suck as a parent.” She knew that he and Father didn’t have the best relationship after he came back from his time at the League, but according to Damian, it used to be way worse, not that she would know. Richard seems content with their explanation and didn't demand more information, even if he desperately wanted to. He respects their boundaries, and that only makes her like him more.

When they got to the zoo, Damian and Timothy were already there, but surprisingly Stephanie had tagged along, so now she wasn’t the only female in the group anymore, not that she cared, but she liked her brother’s girlfriend so the surprise was appreciated.

She had never been to the zoo before, just to see the attractions. The times she went to fight an Akuma did not count. It was a bit sad seeing all these animals stuck in a cage, and she could tell her brother felt the same. Damian always had a soft spot for animals, and would not tolerate if they were being mistreated. Not surprisingly, the Waynes made annual donations to the zoo to ensure that all the animals were well taken care of. When she first heard about that she was glad that Father cared about Damian’s interests enough to pay to support every zoo and animal shelter in the city. It helped ease her guilt for abandoning him for two years knowing that now she was not the only one who cared for him.

They spend the rest of the afternoon enjoying the animals. And Dick was glad he chose to go to the zoo as a family bonding experience. When Damian first came into the family he had taken him there, after discovering that his younger brother absolutely adored animals and he was happy to see that Marianne liked it as well.

Efficient as always, Alfred was already there waiting for them the minute they crossed the exit of the building. As she came to know, the men seemed to have a six sense when it came to all of them. Just by his aura, she could tell he wasn’t someone you wanted to cross, but she could see how much he loved each one of his grandchildren (because she could never kid herself to think of him any less than a Grandfather).

“I assume that today's activities were enjoyable.” The butler asks as he opens the back door of the limo for them. Richard enters first thanking the men.

“It was acceptable” Damian voices, as he too enters the vehicle.

It was a bit of a ride, seeing that the Manor was almost outside of Gotham, but she didn’t mind. Seated between Richard and Damian she spent most of the journey chatting with everyone. But by the time they arrived at the house everyone was a bit tired, so dinner was a relatively small affair. But not uneventful, because as revenge for Bruce bailing on family day, the boys started sharing with her all the shenanigans of her father’s public persona, Brucie Wayne. It was amusing to see this new side to her father, always so reserved and serious.

“If you are all finished sharing Master Bruce's embarrassing moments, I believe it is time for patrol.” Alfred as always came to defuse the situation before it could implode.

Because she spent most of the last two years fighting almost every single day, she decided that she needed some rest from her hero lifestyle. Even after her father asked if she would like to accompany them on patrols, she decided to turn it down for now. So while her family directed themselves to the cave, she made her way into her suite.

It was a beautiful room. Although the color scheme wasn’t something she would have picked herself, it fit with the furniture rather nicely, and her artist side appreciated that. The room itself was simple, but the red colors and the dark wood made the room seem cozier than it was. With a double bed with a canopy, two bedside tables, a vanity with a mirror, and a wardrobe, it had everything she needed. Her Father had encouraged her to decorate her room the way she wanted, and she had been tempted to do so, but ultimately decided to wait until she settled into her role as a family member before she went and added more change to the mix. What she had been very close to doing was adding a desk so she could draw and design, but after she discovered that there was a big one in the library just a few doors from her room, she dismissed the idea.

Quickly she showered and changed into something more comfortable than her street attire, before exiting the room and making her way into the library. It wasn’t as big as the one downstairs, but it had a big balcony that overlooked the gardens, so she liked to just sit in a shadow and sketch away. Damian had been kind enough to spare one of his unused sketchbooks and some pencils, knowing that she liked to draw just as much as he did. She leaned forward into the railing resting her arms and head, but still looking upwards.

The sun had already set, and she was glad that they were far enough away from the city that she could see some stars in the sky. Having lived in Paris, she had really missed all the stars she could see at night from her home on the League. One of her studies had been about the Astros, so she spent a lot of time as a kid contemplating the skies.

“It’s going to rain soon” A voice comes from behind her. Without having to turn around she knew who it was. A smile appears on her face.

“Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for patrol?” She asks, straightening her body, but still not turning around. She could feel the person getting closer to her until she felt a presence at her side.

“That’s the whole point. It's gonna rain.” He carries a hint of humor in his tone “And besides I prefer to keep you company, Pretty Girl. Besides, I believe Red Hood deserves one night off. The guy has been working hard.” He jokes.

With a smile she finally faces him. He had showered and changed, and without his red jacket, he looked so relaxed. It reminded her of their time in the League. Like that he looked so much like the angry boy she helped train. So young and while broken, so full of life and fight in him. He smirks at her but turns his face upwards to look at the night.

“You always did love the stars.” He commented, not looking at her. “It’s sad that here you can't see them as much.”

“It’s not that bad. In Paris, you couldn't see any. It was sad, but to be fair the whole city more than compensated for that. It’s beautiful there.” She recalled all the times she went on a midnight stroll around the city, just enjoying the architecture. “I could spend eternity drawing all the details in the buildings.”

“Do you miss it?” He asks, looking at her. His tone is neutral, but by his body language, she can tell he’s anxious for her answer. She had always been good at reading him, and she was glad that their time apart had not changed that.

“In a way…”

She sighs.

“I liked the city, but I spent most of my time there fighting and training. Not much different from before. It was like everything changed but was still the same. To be completely honest… I miss our time at the League the most.” She confesses but hurriedly continues. “Don’t get me wrong, it was hard! But still… at the same time…”

“I get it.” He interrupts her. He has a small side smile, and the dimples on his face make her want to freeze this moment and draw him so she could eternalize him. Instead, she gets closer to him, seeking comfort in his presence at her side. He embraces her. Securing her in his arms, her body pressed against his, her head buried in his chest.

It was funny to think that the most capable woman to take care of herself he knew, chose to be vulnerable around him. It made him feel loved.

“I miss it too.” He whispered in her ear. She raises her head, just enough that she can see his face without removing herself from his arms. Staying like this reminds her of all the nights he used to sneak into her chambers. And they would talk and hold each other for hours. It felt like it was just yesterday the first time he got the better of her.

“Focus!” She yelled while landing a kick at his unprotected left side. “You are unbalanced- in three moves I could have you on the ground again” She punched him to his right, but he was able to block her and tried to deliver a punch of his own. His knuckles were bloodied, and he knew that in the morning his ribs would hurt. But at this moment he was high on adrenaline. She dodged.

They were training for what felt like hours. But both were too stubborn to ask for the fight to end.

But just as promised, in three more moves he was on the ground. He tried to get back on his feet to continue with the fight but was stopped by a foot on his torso.

“That’s enough.” She helps him to get on his feet. “You were great! You could have overpowered me so many times! I left you so many openings!” She laughs. This was routine for them. After a fight, Marianne was usually so pumped with adrenaline that she spoke at a mile per hour. “We really need to work on your tactics this week. Oh! You also need to improve your stance, you’ve been favoring your right side too much. I know your ribs hurt but you still need to protect your body as a whole.” She comments only stopping to take a large sip of water. “Well, I am spent.”

“You’re spent? I’m the one that has been eating dirt for the whole hour!” He complains indignantly. She tossed a water bottle in his direction, which he grabs and happily finishes in a single gulp.

“Just another reason you need to study more!” She grins. And turns to exit the room, and while walking to the door turns to him again.

“See you in a bit” She winks.

When they meet again they are in her room. She’s seated on the bed sketching some view, while Jason sits on the floor sharpening his knife. They chat casually for some time, but ultimately end speaking about their training session earlier.

“That move would have totally worked!” He exclaims, knife long forgotten he now kneels facing her bed.

“There’s where you are wrong, you need strength on your fist on both sides to push my torso, otherwise I would easily be able to doge only one. You need two punches at different sides in succession for you to distract your opponent!” She explains in a hurry. Her thoughts jumped around her head.

“No way! If it’s strong enough, only one is needed!” He argues.

Worked up she threw her notebook to the side, forgotten. In a second she was up, signaling for him to do the same.

“There is no way. Stand there, pretend to be in stance.” She directs, and without a second thought, he complies. “Okay, so I come for your right side first, you are stronger there.”

Her movements are slowed, as she demonstrates the move. “That’s going to distract you, and keep you focused on your stronger side, leaving your weaker one unprotected.” She shows him where he left an opening for her. “So all I need to do now is strike again, focusing more strength now. Either a punch or a kick would do the trick.” As she goes to demonstrate her point, he grabs the incoming slow punch and pulls her into his body.

Unprepared she loses her balance, falling into his chest. In a second he secures her with his other arm, keeping her in his embrace. She feels her face burning with embarrassment. He caught her by surprise, and she felt ashamed.

“Hey that wasn't fai-” But he silences her, bringing his face closer to hers and giving her a heated kiss. It lasts for some time, but when they finally separate themselves he has a grin on his face.

“Just to be clear, I knew the move wouldn’t have worked. You just look cute when you're angry.”

And before she can protest he shuts her up with another kiss.

So this is by far the biggest chapter! Hope ya’ll like it! We finally get the story behind Jason and Marianne. Let me know what you think!

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monkeyspawnskydiamond · 3 years

Text

To The Woman Who Slept With My Husband

Anonymous·January 26, 2016·5 min readJanuary 26, 2016

Editor’s Note: This piece is written by Marc Gafni’s third ex-wife who was married to him from 1998 to 2004. She wrote about her experience in a recent post for the Times of Israel

hevria.com/anonymous/woman-slept-husband/

I will never forget your apology to me. Tearful, remorseful, awful.

You kept it a secret. You held it in for well over a decade. Embroidered it into your skin…Sequestered from sight and air and left it rotting there inside of you.

Sometimes I imagine all the sick little secrets he ever spawned…all drawn upon the skin of the women who entrusted their silence, their innocence, their sense of shame, to him.

I remember how broken you were. How over-spilled with shame. Begging my forgiveness.

And all I could think was, no I don’t forgive you. I don’t.

Because I don’t blame you. I don’t have a drop of blame to add to this flask of self-guilt you continue to sip.

You tell yourself that you were consensual. An adult. A willing participant. But I don’t buy it. Not in my book you’re not. In my book, you’re a victim…just like me.

If I had my way, every morsel of guilt that rests on your shoulders would be hoisted squarely upon his sorry neck til it breaks. Your sweet beguiled remorse only belongs atop the heaping scale of his guilt.

Please hear me — It is HIS fault that it happened. It is HIS fault that you kept his dirty secret for over a decade.

He was your Rabbi – a spiritual authority figure some 15 years your senior. You were his student.

Did you know that educate and seduce have the same Latin root? He had a sacred duty to educate you, and instead he seduced you.

He convinced you – the very same way he did with everyone else – that you were to blame. That you were a consenting adult. That you asked for it, wanted it, were complicit.

And so you stand before me feeling guilty. – Can’t you see? Remorse is the very emotion that he is utterly incapable of feeling and yet so masterful at using against you.

So, yes, I admit it. I am angry at you.

But not because you agreed to his copious gropes. No, it’s because you blame yourself. I am furious at you for this.

Because when you blame yourself he wins again. And I’m done losing to him. I’m done with it.

When you blame yourself you send the story line reeling in the wrong direction.

When you blame yourself you obscure the truth. Again. And this truth has been so rampantly mangled, so treacherously obscured and robbed of its say so many times and in so many way that it makes me frickin’ sick with fury and I’m done with it…

So please indulge me as I lay the truth out as I know it. In the starkest possible terms. Give me one more chance to rant against this monstrosity of a man and all that he did to me and my precious, G-d fearing & decent friends.

We were innocent young women flat-out finagled by a world-class con-artist. Lassoed in by a sociopath marauding as a spiritual guide. He took our innocence, our best intentions, our deepest yearnings – and twisted it against us. For his own sick purposes.

And he did it to the not-so-young-and-innocent as well.

And it is nothing short of criminal. There should be laws against this in every court of man.

Unfortunately there aren’t – yet.

But there is this… THIS moment. This ‘hearing’.

This jury box set up in the international courthouse known as The Internet.

I beg the very ears of heaven to bend down low to grok all that I am saying here.

We have been wronged by this fiend. Flocks of us. Students, funders, colleagues. And so many of us to this day heap the shame upon ourselves. So many of us keep stitching the secret back into our skin til it snakes like poison-ivy across our psyches.

Until we spell out his manipulations in all their stark reality then the world won’t see it either and his defenders will persist. His abuses will continue – with impudence – as they have for decades.

Aren’t we ready to be done with this?

I say this to All Victims Everywhere…

This is sooo much bigger than Gafni.

This message is for everyone out there who is right now sitting speechless on a stash of secrets.

Know this: your self-blame and secret-keeping are just one more way that your smiling abuser continues to victimize you. Your secret-guarding is his/her best defense and shining license to attack again.

Your remorse, your shame and your shut mouths are but weapons in abusive hands.

I know, you might be embarrassed about what you did. But this is precisely where the murkiness sets in. The darkness feasts on murkiness. It is the grey matter that feeds a thousand fiends.

So let us make it perfectly clear. Our secret-keeping is another form of abuse. It keeps our abusers safe and enabled to continue their diabolic games.

I know. I protected my abuser too. Because I believed in ‘the mission’. Because I felt shame. Because I didn’t want to talk bad or air dirty laundry. Good Lord, I still refuse to share my name.

But I am determined to do it differently now. We can do it different now. And we can set new precedents for the future. The internet has gifted us with voice, with systems of support beyond our wildest dreams.

We can do it for every victim out there who might right now be reading this and reconsidering their own pacts of silence signed with shame.

We can show them what it looks like to tell our stories as loud and angry as we can muster.

This might be the only hearing against these slippery criminals that we are going to get my friends.

So please. If you are keeping secrets for someone, anyone…a partner…a parent… teacher…a friend. Speak it. Share it.

Secret-keeping is your first indicator that there is foul play.

Even if you fear you were consensual. Even if you enjoyed it at some point. Even if you fear ‘betraying him’ as if it were the plague.

Just share with one other person. Find a therapist, a computer screen, a confidant. Tell someone. Do it anonymously. Do it imperfectly. But do it.

And for the sake of all is good and holy… forgive yourself.

Believe me – it’s not too late.

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nctsworld · 4 years

Text

no filters (just you)

✩ johnny x reader | pining | fluff | photographer au | 1.7k

→ summary: in which you finally steal a peek at your best friend’s camera gallery and are surprised to find countless photos of you throughout it all. → warnings: some drinking, few swear words, kissing

→ gif created by me, please don’t repost or share without credit!

The bustling of the joyous occasion surrounds you. String lights glow under the summer night sky. They encompass the white linen tables topped with delicate flowers and ornaments, alongside all the dressed up people dancing, sitting, laughing, and overall having a great time.

You’re one of the people sitting at a table, indulging yourself with a glass of champagne in one hand. However, you aren’t alone. Johnny, your best friend, is the photographer for the wedding and was allowed to bring a guest. Not much persuasion was needed when free food and drinks were involved.

Taking a sip of your drink, you watch your towering friend finish taking a picture of people on the dance floor before he heads straight towards you. His camera sways lightly with his cool walk and when he finally reaches you, he feigns an exhausted sigh and sinks into the chair next to you.

“Man, photography just takes so much out of me,” he shakes his head while loosening his tie.

“Does it really, though?” you cock an eyebrow, then flash him your signature smile. He reflects your expression, grabs your glass, and takes a sip. Actually, more than a sip, since he finishes all the bubbly without hesitation.

“I thought you don’t drink on the job.”

Setting the thin vessel down, he shakes his head defensively, “I never said that. I said I don’t get drunk on the job. There’s a difference.”

You snatch your empty glass back and begin to refill it as Johnny carefully removes the camera strap from his body prior to gently placing the camera on the table. He leaves a hand on it, giving him a sense of security over his prized possession (and because it’s the reason why he’s getting paid tonight).

Johnny looks back and forth between the floor and the table when he says, “Sorry I couldn’t really be with you tonight.”

In the midst of a sip, you immediately refute his apology. “No, don’t apologize, Johnny. You’re working, and you know I can’t complain.” You gesture towards all the food and drinks.

“But...” you play with the stem of the glass. “Can I at least see some of the pictures?”

“No, you cannot,” he quickly answers, shutting you down like he usually does. You pout.

“You know I couldn’t give two shits if you take pictures of naked girls in your spare time, right?” Sarcasm oozes from your accusation, but anyone walking by and hearing it wouldn’t know otherwise.

“Oh, my God,” he runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head from your lack of shame. You notice his cheeks start to colour, but you’re unsure if that’s from the drink or embarrassment.��

“Firstly, all the pictures of the naked girls I take are on my other camera,” he begins to count on his fingers, responding against your banter. “And secondly, I’m working on a secret photography project. Once I’m done, then you can see it.”

“You promise?” you hold your pinky out.

He chuckles. “I promise.”

His pinky finger curls around yours, then both of you angle your hand a bit upward to have your thumbs touch. After the promise is sealed, the two of you have some fun on the dance floor until midnight rolls around and guests trickle more and more away. Johnny deals with the last bit of his job before he begins to drive you home.

You relax into the passenger seat, looking at all the things that pass by in the middle of the night. Johnny’s music softly plays in the background and almost lulls you to sleep until he mentions he has to stop for gas.

“I’m gonna pick up some snacks. Do you want any?”

A few come to mind, so you list them for him to pick up on your behalf. He smiles, jokingly tells you not to go anywhere, and heads into the gas station’s convenience store as he’s done filling his tank. While you watch him make his way towards the store, a lightbulb goes off in your head. Without thinking, your hand reaches in the back seat of his car and grasps onto his camera; you couldn’t help but jump at the chance to rummage through his camera gallery.

The camera’s screen glares at you in the darkness of the car. It’s a bit painful, but you persist and smile back at all the people enjoying themselves in the wedding photos.

Whenever you see Johnny’s shots, they never fail to amaze you. He has the ability to capture a moment in its purest essence. If a picture is worth a thousand words, Johnny’s pictures were worth double.

Suddenly, you notice a photo of yourself sitting at the table, glancing off to one side. You think to yourself that Johnny caught you in such a picture-perfect moment, he probably couldn’t help himself.

You scroll further through the wedding photos, but realization gradually dawns on you when you notice that there are more photos of you than there should be at an event that wasn’t even your own.

Hastily, you go to the master gallery page to view several photos at once. The camera almost drops from your hands as your fingers fumble with the back button to view photos that date back from weeks and months ago at mutual friends’ gatherings.

Earlier in the summer for Taeyong’s birthday, you see glimpses of you in various shots. Laughing, smiling, wincing. You didn’t even know you had such facial expressions.

There’s shots of your back peering at a sunset, looking off the balcony of Taeil’s new apartment from his housewarming.

Before then, there’s shots of you at a dinner party celebrating Mark’s promotion at work.

Johnny’s taken so many photos of you without you ever knowing. How did you not realize?

You hold the camera’s screen close to your body for a second, wondering if you’re simply Johnny’s artistic muse for a mere project or if there is something actually more to all this.

Did Johnny really see you as more than friends?

Did he view you the way you silently yearn for him, or did he only like you through a camera lens?

Turning your head, you see Johnny strolling out of the store with snacks in his arms. Faster than the speed of light, you ensure the camera roll is back to the last wedding photo taken and almost throw it against the back seat. You seethe, knowing Johnny would kill you if he knew you did that, but you maintain composure. You pull your phone out, playing cool just in time as he opens the door.

During the rest of the ride, you try your hardest to pretend nothing’s wrong. Even when silent, Johnny’s known you long enough to know something’s off. He doesn’t say anything until he pulls up in front of your place. When he does, the suited figure turns off the engine, but leaves the music playing still.

“Hey,” he whispers your name in the night air. It’s tender, but worrisome. Not a common thing you hear from him. “You okay?”

You lie, barely nodding, and glance down with a slight grip on the snacks he bought you. The crinkle of the bags are a loud intrusion to the background music and silent air.

“I…” You’re searching for what to say, deciding if you should continue to lie or not.

“I may have went through your camera.” The truth croaks out of you, and you’re shaking your head because on top of your confusion, you’re feeling waves of guilt from intruding your best friend’s privacy. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.”

From your peripheral vision, you catch Johnny’s hand grip a little tighter on the steering wheel, then his grip relaxes and he rubs his thumb delicately against it.

“Can I just say,” he speaks after a few passing moments that feel like eternity, into the tension still present in the air. “I’m not a stalker or creeper, I swear.”

A beat passes.

You cut the thick tension with a small laugh. He follows and begins to laugh along with you.

“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” you sarcastically add and look over at him.

“Hey, you know I need to cover my grounds. I don’t need my best friend suing my ass.”

Hearing the term “best friend” lingers and sits with both of you strangely in the air.

“Do you…” you begin to ask the question that may hurt the most, so you elect to ask a less loaded question. “Are you actually doing a photography project using my pictures?”

He nods with the dim street light shining on him. He’s tired, you can tell, and you feel more guilt for keeping him up any longer than you should. Despite his wariness, Johnny still looks gorgeous, especially with the perfect lighting. Sometimes, he jokes that life is a runway for him, but in this moment, you begin to understand and agree with him.

“Yeah, it’s a project on something that I consider beautiful,” Johnny glances over to you as the last word rolls off his tongue, and you’re smiling softly at his compliment. “I’m supposed to present it later this week. I was going to figure out a way to break it to you afterwards.”

Hearing Johnny call you beautiful has your heart fluttering. You just want to jump out of the car, squeal so much that the neighbours would wake up, then you would run into your home and call it a night.

Instead, your body takes control and courage courses through your veins when you reach for the end of his tie. You daintily roll the tip of it between your fingers and let the haunting question free, ready for whatever follows.

“Do you like me? As more than a friend?”

You’re suddenly conscious of how hard you’re breathing and your heart flutters become hard knocks against your chest. Johnny’s face is now a few inches away from yours. At this point, you’re unsure if you’re playing with his tie out of nervousness or desiring for something more, or perhaps both. Your eyes attempt to lock with his and you note how he’s breathing just as hard as you are. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Johnny this nervous before.

“Yeah,” he exhales with a nod. You smell a small hint of the champagne scent against your face from his breath, along with the scent of his faded cologne. Johnny finally manages to match your gaze. “Do you?”

Without a word, you answer his question by practically yanking his tie closer to you, meeting his lips with yours.

The night ends with you two kissing breathlessly in the backseat until hues of orange and yellow begin to stain the horizon.

#johnny x reader #johnny suh x reader #johnny seo x reader #johnny suh #johnny suh imagines #johnny suh scenarios #nct 127 fanfic #nct fanfic #nct fluff #nct imagines #johnny suh fluff #nct #nct 127 #nct 127 imagines #johnny #neowritingsnet #myfanfics #mywritings

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readerinsertfanfiction · 3 years

Note

Hello, dearest Nemo. Inspired by a matter you're probably aware of, here I come, to ask you for certain opinion, although perhaps in form of HeadCanons... Let's say we have Ghibli Movies and the Warlords. Which movie would be each warlord's favourite? What do you think?

Ooooh, lil'Lorei remembers my obsession with Studio Ghibli movies, I see. (. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)(. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)(. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)

Fandom: Ikemen Sengoku

Characters: All - Kanetsugu because idk I can’t find shit on him only that he is a tsun.

Prompt: The warlords and studio Ghibli movies. Disclaimer: I only listed the movies I have watched, which is a fair amount but by no means all.

To sit on the couch with a Sengoku warlord felt strange. No, it was definitely weird! All the more so when you put up a Studio Ghibli movie. Just any, because you felt like it. Little did you know that the warlord would take so well to it. He had been rather apprehensive at first, after all, moving pictures and that strange sound? But after a while the movies won him over. After all, who could resist the peaceful charm of Studio Ghibli, dreaming away at the romance of everyday life set in a beautiful landscape far away from all worry and chaos?

Nobunaga Oda: Spirited away

“The soot sprites have good taste,” the Oda leader pronounced, a proud smile etched on his face as he enjoyed the movie playing. On the screen the little black balls could be seen carrying off the konpeito, dancing around the little girl that had just lost her name to Yubaba, a move that Nobunaga had heartily laughed at. “I should consider doing this myself,” he had exclaimed, eyes glistening in mischief, “but I would rename them,” and to this remark you could only feel yourself sweatdrop, recalling the animal-inspired nicknames he tended to give his vassals.

Ieyasu Tokugawa: When Marnie was there

Something about the movie triggered something within him. The themes of loneliness, and constantly being moved around, but most of all, the trope of a found family and the concept of home. They resonated with his own childhood that he had resented so much. The past in which he was treated kindly, but also at times cruelly. All of these stories consolidated into one movie and two girls. “Marnie was weak,” he would later say, “good for Anna,” was his end review, but you could see the tears in the corner of his eyes. The movie had touched him.

Hideyoshi Toyotomi: Tales from Earthsea

A story of guilt and servitude? Prince Arren and the shadow that chases him? An inner fear, but yet a strong resolve to sacrifice all to reach ones goal? Hideyoshi is sold. The promise in the end is what gives that extra edge needed as Hideyoshi is weeping at the end of it all. “I will return to you, lord Nobunaga. I will repay all of my sins!” he wails and you know that he means it. Strangely enough, you have a feeling that Nobunaga would like the concept of ‘True Name’

Masamune Date: The wind rises

The story of a young boy whose dreams are shattered because of his weaknesses and then overcoming them? That’s his boy! Masamune has been cheering Jiro on since the opening of the movie and never stopped. Not until halfway through the movie and a frown settles on his face until the man has to gulp audibly to keep himself in check. All that chasing after a dream and the sacrifices made. It definitely hits a snare with the man who is quiet after the movie. He will need a cuddle or two.

Mitsuhide Akechi: Kiki’s delivery service

“There is just something about watching a little mouse grow up, isn’t there?” Mitsuhide teases with that lilting smile of his ever-present. But between the affectionate nickname and watching the movie there is something wistful about the man who sees the peaceful coming-of-age and finding identity and inspiration for live and passion within the little girl on her broom. He doesn’t say it, but he hopes that children in the future can grow up in such peace as Kiki does, able to adventure and a home to return to.

Kyubei: Whisper of the heart

Two kids chasing after their dreams, one set and the other just learning about it and a very capable cat that guides them. Kyubei enjoys the relationship that develops and the romance that comes with it, finding the fantasy element adorable. “I have a favourite person as well,” he tells you later with a mystifying smile, referring to the poster advertising the movie. A favourite person and a dream, he realises, which he hadn’t before.

Mitsunari Ishida: The secret world of Arrietty

“How very inventive!” the man constantly exclaims as he watches the little Arrietty move around in the garden. When she is fighting off bugs her own size Mitsunari clasps his hands together, as he rattles off on the many efficiencies they can make use of the bugs and employ the garden and the doll house. In the end Mitsunari feels only a little sad about Arrietty’s departure, though he has all faith that the friends will meet again, “is there a sequel,” he asks you for that, eager and beaming.

Keiji Maeda: Howl’s moving castle

Of course Howl’s theatrical ways are what enraptured the man at first, accompanied with Sophie’s determination and go-getters attitude. “That is no dull woman!” he exclaims happily as he watches the older sister fall to the curse cast by the witch. And though it is only vaguely implied Keiji comes to understand that it was something about the heart, just as Howl transforms because of his own heart. ‘A heart is a heavy burden.’ Sophie’s line catches him and Keiji agrees that Sophie’s hair is like starlight. He turns to you, however and tells you that you’re his starlight.

Ranmaru Mori: The cat returns

The cats, Baron the gentleman cat that just looks super cook and a whole slew of shenanigans about to happen. Secretly Ranmaru sees Kennyo in Baron, dreaming away watching his master be the cool hero that he was always meant to be. A little mysterious, totally awesome and can kick ass. Yes, that’s his favourite person!

Kennyo: My neighbour Totoro

There is something homely about the strange giant figure with its creepy smile and silent gestures. In fact, the whole movie endears the man. Two girls surrounded by the beauty of nature, growing up in peace and afraid of soot, catbus riding them to their mother. Kennyo can’t help but smile at the outrageousness of it all, finding it all very endearing. Secretly he thinks himself as Totoro, hiding in the forests and watching over the innocents.

Kenshin Uesugi: Princess Mononoke

A story about rulership, about how humanity ruins life eventually, about destruction and a lot of fighting. Kenshin loves it, especially for the last part. But as a former monk himself with a good appreciation for the gods and nature Kenshin relates to lady Eboshi who is willing to fight all if it means keeping her people safe and San, who fights to protect what she holds dear. He understands that and he relates to that.

Shingen Takeda: The tale of the princess Kaguya

A classic he is familiar with turned into an animation he has never experienced! Shingen loves it. Though he has to admit that he likes the story versions better he has a good appreciation for the artistry and the interpretation of the story, along with the pain of forgetting and leaving.

Yukimura Sanada: Porco Rosso

His favourite nickname turned into a character! Yukimura was flabbergasted at first, but then he came to understand that this was a spell of sorts, just as the movie itself was a trick of magic called science. But alas, that’s not why Yukimura was so in awe with the movie, it was the cool zeal in which the main character flies for his convictions. And somewhere deep down, though he will never admit such, the main character reminds him of Shingen.

Sasuke Sarutobi: Grave of the fireflies

Ah, the classic on which a whole generation was cruelly introduced to Studio Ghibli’s magic, the movie that started it all and above all: made everyone cry. Some may find him a bit of a weirdo to choose this as his favourite movie, after all it is such a sad movie. But it is the history, the message behind it, the themes dealt with and at last the pain and love of the siblings bereft by war. Sasuke’s heart is beaming just at the thought of the entire movie as his eyes start to tear up, dryly.

Kichou: Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind

There is no movie that quite agrees with him that the world is set out for doom than Nausicaä. The world is destroyed by humanity in a war, humans are still at war, but not only amongst each other for their greed but also with nature. Nature is trying to kill them for the sins committed by man. It all comes together and shows how the blight of this world truly is men and how the future that you come from is just an illusionary peace.

Yoshimoto Imagawa: Ocean Waves

Modern life poured into an artistic expression of young love. There is nothing quite more artistic than that in Yoshimoto’s opinion. The art is pretty, the story is enjoyable and not too riddled with all ugly traits and reminders of chaos and war and he gets to observe the modern world and its beauty a little more. Yes, Yoshimoto is indeed trying to forget about all the ugliness back in the Sengoku.

Motonari Mouri: Castle in the sky

Sky pirates, raiding a precious city, chaos overall and a booming ending? Sign him up. Motonari doesn’t really care for the main characters, finding them too sweet and innocent, but he has noticed that this is an overall trend within Studio Ghibli movies. Do, tell him more about the sky pirates, however and he definitely needs one of those flying machines.

#ikemen sengoku #ikesen #ikesen headcanons #ikesen nobunaga #ikesen masamune #ikesen ieyasu #ikesen mitsuhide #ikesen hideyoshi #ikesen mitsunari #ikesen keiji #ikesen yukimura #ikesen shingen #ikesen kenshin #ikesen kennyo #ikesen sasuke #ikesen ranmaru #ikesen yoshimoto #ikesen motonari #ikesen kichou

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criminalmutantsins · 3 years

Text

My Version of the Hamato Family

Hi everyone! Thank you for reading and liking part one. It made my day!

So, this is where I shine in writing. I love creating characters and their backstory; it’s so fun. I think it is more important to focus on characters than the plot since a character can create the storyline- well at least for me.

I’m excited to share! Hope you enjoy!

Comment your thoughts! It would be cool to read them! 😁

……………………..

Leonardo:

We’re starting with the usual leader-in-blue!

Although I adore Leo, his “perfect” personality can get a little boring. His versions usually have flaws, though they are the kind that makes you sympathize with him rather than feeling indifferent like with Raph’s anger issues.

Season 1 Leo would be a toned-down Rise Leo. He can be cocky when he succeeds over his brothers and would jokingly comment how he is Splinter’s favorite. However, it doesn’t come without hard work. Leo trains the most out of his brothers and spends most of his time studying fighting techniques. He is not naturally talented in ninjitsu like the past incarnations. Also, Leo’s motivations for training very hard and wanting to be leader is more for himself than anything.

Compared to his brothers, Leo was relatively average. Donnie was extremely smart, Mikey had his kind and joyful soul, and Raph was naturally a great fighter. Leo felt left out and decided that training to be a hero would be his way of standing out. He also believed that being special like his brothers was the only way to get Splinter’s attention; and it kind of worked. With all the progress Leo made, Splinter praised him, and they had a way to connect.

Around the beginning of S1(maybe ep. 5), Leo became the leader though how was different. Instead of Splinter deciding, the brothers did; the explanation was the turtles were a team and should make a consensus as one. This news made Leo ecstatic; he was finally living his dreams. Even so, he didn’t realize the baggage and responsibility a leader had to shoulder. Over the course of the story Leo grows as a great leader and fighter.

The Karai/Leo subplot will follow the 2003 version. He is convinced that Karai is a good person and tries to have her switch sides. There will be romantic feelings but its not the main motivation for both of their actions. I can’t say too much since this plot revolves around Karai more.

Donatello:

Donnie is a blend of 2003/12 versions. He is intelligent with an extremely high IQ and was a gifted child. However, his intelligence came with a cost; making connections with his brothers and father was really tough for him because of their different interests. This left him withdrawing from everyone and focusing on his inventions. His social skills evolve once the turtles visit the city and meet April. The increasing danger of the Kraang further builds his relationships since communication is important in teamwork, and Donnie’s talent in inventing grew more in the spotlight.

Because of her fascination with Donnie’s smarts and inventions, April and Donnie become good friends as the story continues. Donnie also gets close with April’s best friend, Irma since they are science lovers. At first, Casey irritates him as they have clearly different personality; Casey’s impulsive and extroverted attitude conflicting with Donnie’s plan-based mindset.

Donnie’s love for his family is showcased after witnessing a terrifying, apocalyptic future where his family suffers. Paranoia sets in. His work to calculate the cause of this terrible, and its solution leads Donnie to rarely take care of his needs. He has to learn to trust in others instead of doing things alone.

Raphael:

Unlike Leo, Raph is instantly gifted in fighting. He has more physical strength than his brothers and would constantly beat them in practice. Since childhood, Raph was Splinter’s “favorite” in the dojo and that definitely got into the red-banded turtle’s head. He would brag to his brothers and jokingly poke fun at their techniques. It wouldn’t affect anyone. Except for Leo.

Raphael’s ego started taking hits once Leo caught up to him and beating him in practice once in a while. It turned into anger after noticing Master Splinter praising Leo more. The tension soured their brotherhood. Unlike most versions, Raph’s anger is fueled by insecurity. He believes that fighting is the only thing he is good at and will get territorial if his spotlight is threatened.

Throughout the story, he learns to move on from his demons and realize his worth.

Family is important to Raph. He can be hard on his brothers yet will do anything to keep them safe, especially Mikey- his positivity must be protected. Casey and Raph become best friends for their similarities and love for fighting- they are impulsive bros.

Michelangelo:

Mikey’s role is to be the positive and glue of the team. He loves to make people happy and would always do something goofy or kind to do that. His family have nothing bad to say about their youngest member and are very protective of him. The youngest brother doesn’t take ninjitsu as seriously as skateboarding, dancing, or just general fun. Though, he will be serious when the situation calls for it, such as the fate of his family and the world.

Although being an open ear to anyone, Mikey is not open to expressing his negative emotions due to his fear of damaging the family dynamic. It is noticeable when he is upset because he jokes more often and not focus. A lesson he must learn is to accept the good and the bad. Mikey can be reckless, mostly when his brothers rarely let him participate in missions. He wants to prove to his family that he is strong enough to protect himself and others. Reading people is his best skill and takes great pride in it, usually taking on the role of a therapist.

Splinter/Hamato Yoshi:

I really wanted to take Splinter’s role in the Shredder’s descent to evil in the grayer area. He is usually the victim/innocent party of the story, which can get boring after a while.

Hamato Yoshi was born as the heir to Hamato Clan and childhood best friend of Oroku Saki. The Hamato and Foot clan were allies for centuries and would usually fight by each other’s side. Matters changed when the Foot’s beliefs grew more sinister. This left the Hamato Clan to eradicate their former ally. Splinter saved Saki before he could be killed, though, it came with consequences. Oroku Saki vowed to exact revenge for his fallen home. Growing up, Splinter became one of the strongest martial artists in Japan and married a woman named Tang Shen, later becoming a father to a girl. His world ended once he saw his clan destroyed and his family killed by the renewed Foot Clan.

Yoshi decided to move to New York and forget his old life. Years later, the martial artist noticed strange people caging defenseless animals. He would fight them long enough to protect four humanoid turtles, deciding to keep them after a moment of compassion. Splinter would continuously fight the strange men until a strange liquid turned him into a rat. This turning point banished Splinter and the turtles to the sewers for protection.

Splinter equally loves his sons. He would always make sure to give them equal amounts of love to avoid lasting issues. Though, he has made some mistakes. Emotions were rarely discussed because of Splinter’s unintentionally withdrawn attitude. The rat master wouldn’t instantly notice problems between his sons, and usually didn’t know how to resolve them. No matter what, Splinter is proud of his children and would do anything to keep them safe; sometimes not realizing that it could hurt them.

Hamato Yoshi’s guilt and trauma over the terrible moments in his life would be the main focus of his development.

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ibijau · 3 years

Text

Counterfeit AU pt5 / On AO3

Lan Xichen, left alone, discovers something about Nie Huaisang

Sitting on a kitchen chair, Lan Xichen listens as Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian try to explain to him who they are. He half wishes he could tell them that he remembers… not everything, not yet (not ever, a part of him hopes) but certainly enough that introductions aren’t quite needed. Words don’t quite make it to his mouth though, his mind still struggling to accept what’s going on. Lan Xichen, until now, always prided himself in being a rational man.

It’s hard to be rational when faced with your brother from another life, whose husband tells you that they have been looking for you for centuries, because apparently they’re immortals.

It’s odd that Lan Xichen accepts that part so easily. Immortals only exist in stories, he would have said just a few hours ago. Now though… well, there’s something not fully human to Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian, a touch of something more.

“It’s only the second time we find you,” Wei Wuxian says, glancing at his husband. Lan Wangji’s expression is nearly unchanged, but Lan Xichen can tell he is deeply distraught. “Well, the second time we find you where you’re still alive,” Wei Wuxian corrects, making his husband wince slightly. “We were always too late, somehow. Every time we reached you, you’d died already. Even the other time we found you alive barely counts. You were very, very old, and you weren’t quite all there anymore. You didn’t really recognise your actual family, so two strangers from another life… and anyway, you died the night we arrived.”

Lan Wangji flinches, which makes Lan Xichen want to scold Wei Wuxian because surely, after so long alive, he should have learned by now to be a little more considerate to the feelings of others, shouldn’t he? But before he can say anything, Wei Wuxian leans toward his husband and takes his hand, intertwining their fingers in a way that makes Lan Wangji relax.

In another life, Lan Xichen had sometimes taken those gestures of affection as an attack, when he had lost so much himself. He'd known, even then, that it was an irrational reaction. At least now he can watch those two and feel nothing except some relief that things worked out so well for them.

"Are there more like you?" he asks.

"Immortals? Not that many," Wei Wuxian admits. "I got to meet Baoshan Sanren, but of our generation only the two of us and Nie-xiong became immortals. Well, and Lan Jingyi became a god, but he's busy and we don't see him a lot. Oh, and Song Lan was around too for a long while of course, but about five centuries ago Xiao Xingchen and A-Qing's souls finally recovered from being fractured, so they all three re-entered the cycle of reincarnation. And then there's a few others from before, though not many from after. We're not sure why, but two or three generations after us, it just stopped happening."

Lan Xichen lets out a sigh. It's not that he particularly expected anything, but he feels disappointed anyway.

"Xiongzhang might still meet others," Lan Wangji says in what seems intended as a comforting tone. He has improved in expressing himself, or else Lan Xichen remembers this too. "From that first life we all shared. Maybe from following ones, if they impacted your soul enough."

"Oh," Lan Xichen says. His hands clench over his knees. He wonders if there's anyone he might want to meet again, when he died feeling he had failed everyone, that first time.

“It will all come back to you here and there,” Wei Wuxian explains. “You might also realise you already know other people from before. I’ve been told it’s a weird feeling, but you get used to it.”

Lan Xichen considers this, and tries to guess who this might concern. For some reason, his little brother comes to mind, but that might be only wishful thinking. Same with his father. Maybe he actually hasn't encountered anyone from his past. No one except, of course…

“I’ve met Meng Yao,” Lan Xichen says.

The other two men grimace.

“Hopefully you’ll also meet people you like,” Wei Wuxian replies with an embarrassed cough.

Lan Xichen, who likes Meng Yao very much indeed, stares at him blankly. What right does this stranger to pass judgement on his… not boyfriend, not exactly. Not yet. Lan Xichen was still working out the courage to have that conversation, to see if Meng Yao might be amenable to real dates, to kissing, to…

It won’t happen now.

It won’t happen because in another life, Lan Xichen murdered Meng Yao.

He didn’t particularly want to, he vaguely recalls. It had been a last resort, and to be frank Meng Yao had brought it upon himself. Still, the fact remains that Lan Xichen killed one of the men he… well, he might have loved him, back then. It’s hard to say for sure. But it is quite certain that Lan Xichen killed him, and even after several lifetimes, he’s not sure Meng Yao will have forgiven him.

He didn’t use to be a very forgiving man.

"Speaking of the devil, better go check what's going on in that basement before it turns bad," Wei Wuxian mutters, glancing in direction of the kitchen door. "Just because he's never killed Nie-xiong yet doesn't mean he can't do it ever. Hey, Lan-da-ge, do you need a ride back home?"

The nickname feels like a slap.

Lan Xichen remembers he could never quite decide whether he liked Wei Wuxian or not, in that first life.

He's still not sure he does.

"I have a taxi coming," he announces. "But thanks for the offer. I just wish to have some time to digest all of this."

Wei Wuxian shrugs, apparently unconcerned, and leaves the kitchen. While he's gone, Lan Wangji politely asks if they might exchange phone numbers. He won't force the acquaintance, he explains, but he'd be grateful if this favour were granted.

Lan Xichen, weak to little brothers of his in this life as in every others, readily agrees.

Lan Wangji, so dry and formal in speech, texts with emojis everywhere. Lan Xichen is endeared, and wonders if that is Wei Wuxian's influence at play.

Maybe he does like Wei Wuxian a little, if he can help his brother express himself more easily.

After a little while, Lan Xichen hears two pairs of feet on the stairs coming from the basement. Wei Wuxian calls only for Lan Wangji to join them in the entrance, but Lan Xichen springs to his feet, knocking down the chair in his haste. He takes one long step, two, three, and reaches the kitchen door. From there he sees Wei Wuxian and Nie Huaisang at the door, the former making a joke of some sort, the later trying to put on shoes as fast as he can. They both look up when they notice a presence hovering by the kitchen door.

Nie Huaisang goes pale at the sight of Lan Xichen. His face grows tight, his lips twisting into a grimace that might be disgust, or horror, or something else entirely. Whatever it is, it makes Nie Huaisang jump to his feet and run out of the door, nearly tripping on his half tied shoelaces. Wei Wuxian sighs and shakes his head, but says nothing, even as a car door opens and closes with a slam somewhere outside.

"Nie Huaisang hasn't changed," Lan Wangji says as he joins them

Wei Wuxian and him exchange a look. To Lan Xichen, it looks like a long conversation without words. After so long together, some things might no longer need to be said.

"Do you want us to stay until your taxi is here?" Wei Wuxian asks, nodding toward the basement stairs. Toward Meng Yao. "You know, in case…"

Lan Xichen considers saying yes, then feels ashamed of himself for thinking like this. Whatever happened in another life, and even if it ruins any chance of romance in the present, Lan Xichen cannot imagine this current Meng Yao harming him.

Perhaps Lan Xichen too hasn't changed, in spite of several lifetimes which should have taught him better.

He shakes his head. Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian look unhappy, but don't insist. They tell him, again, to call them, to get in touch, to allow them in his life if he can, and leave.

As soon as their car leaves, Meng Yao emerges from the basement and heads out as well. He looks like he cried, or like he might cry later. He doesn't spare Lan Xichen a single glance, but he seems in such a state that he might just not have noticed the other man.

That second car speeds into the distance.

Just like that, Lan Xichen is alone.

Of course that's hardly new. He spent a few decades alone in this cold house, reflecting on his mistakes. A prison of his own making, with no company but guilt and brushes. Music he'd abandoned after how much it had cost him, but calligraphy, but poetry, but painting…

He painted a lot, and burned it all every now and then. He was never skill enough to produce anything worth keeping, anyway, unlike…

Lan Xichen's eyes wander toward those downward stairs. He came here for a reason, he remembers, and while he might have ruined many things, perhaps this at least he can still have.

When he reaches the basement, Lan Xichen finds the door to Nie Huaisang’s workshop open. A fit of forgetfulness which he takes as an invitation.

Just as Meng Yao promised, this workshop is filled with paintings in Nie Huaisang’s hand. Some appear to be reproductions of pieces Lan Xichen has seen before… unless they are originals. The notes attached to a few appear doubtful, as if the artist himself cannot remember anymore when he first painted each piece. A few are copies of other artists' work, more carefully hidden and annotated. Those, as far as Lan Xichen can tell when it isn't his subject of predilection, are mostly lost artwork. Judging by the notes, they all belonged to masters whom Nie Huaisang once met in person.

Most interesting to Lan Xichen are Nie Huaisang’s own lost works, reproduced by his own hand and carefully labelled. The titles are familiar, as are the subjects in some cases thanks to old descriptions. But it is the first time Lan Xichen sees those, and with each one he feels he uncovers another secret of this artist he has so extensively studied.

The brushstrokes here are innovative, showing progress from this earlier work. But there the curves and lines of mountains, a little clumsy if considered alone, announce the brilliance of a future series. And then there are portraits of disciples, views of the Unclean Realm, all rumoured to have existed but lost to collectors centuries ago. Those are the only ones whose notes do not mention when the originals were lost or destroyed, so it might be that Nie Huaisang, missing his long gone home, bought back the shadows of his old life.

Painting by painting, Nie-Huaisang-the-artist unveils himself to Lan Xichen.

Nie-Huaisang-the-man remains a mystery, until Lan Xichen, having observed and photographed everything else, becomes curious about the desk's two drawers.

In the top one he finds doodles and notes, post-its about orders, lists of works already in collections. There are also candy wrappers, some ancient coins, a novel in a foreign language with a crumbling bookmark. Nie Huaisang hasn't changed, still messy. It makes Lan Xichen want to laugh and cry, thinking of his uncle who once thought he could correct Nie Huaisang’s bad habits. A fight lost from the start, he realises.

Finding nothing useful in this drawer, Lan Xichen is about to open the other one when, somewhere far above him, a car's horn announces that his taxi is here at last. It would be rude to make the driver wait, Lan Xichen thinks, and the first draw contained nothing important, so it is unlikely the second will be different.

It would be wise to leave this place, forget about it, return to his quiet and ordinary life. He'll write his book or he won't, and then move on to something less intimage.

It would be wise and Lan Xichen even takes a step toward the door before changing his mind. He cannot let this last shred of curiosity go unsatisfied. He still carries too many regrets from his previous lives, he cannot accumulate new ones already.

Lan Xichen opens the other drawer, and gasps.

Unlike the rest of the room where everything is organised and cared for, this drawer is filled with piled up sheets of paper that appear to have been unceremoniously thrown there. On top of the pile is the portrait of a melancholic looking man dressed all in white, wearing an embroidered ribbon on his forehead. On the corner of the page, a scribbled note reads ‘more smile’, as well as a recent date.

Without thinking Lan Xichen grabs the painting to get a better look. As he does so, the next sheet of paper on the pile is revealed: another portrait of the same man, nearly identical, though the note is different. Its date is a year earlier, and it reads ‘too stern’. Lan Xichen grabs that painting too, and the next, browsing through them with increasing franzy.

There are well over a hundred portraits of the same man in that drawer, going back centuries. The styles change depending on their age, reflecting the preference of that era. They all have a date, and most have a comment of sorts as well, usually criticising some element of the portrait that must be corrected to achieve true likeness.

A hundred portraits of Lan Xichen.

Because that is him, he knows, even if no name is mentioned. This is who he was in that first life.

Or at least, it is how Nie Huaisang remembered him. The oldest of those paintings is still dated to nearly five centuries after Lan Xichen’s first death, and there’s a roughness to it, a sentiment of urgency, that makes him think it really is the first of that series, that there were no others before that. Even accounting for style, that first painting looks different from the others, it is unpolished and vague, as if Nie Huaisang had almost forgotten what Lan Xichen looked like. The notes on that first painting are scathing, full of reproach about being too stupid to remember what ‘er-ge’ looked like.

How odd, Lan Xichen thinks.

They never really met again, Nie Huaisang and him. Not after the murder of Jin Guangyao. He remembers assuming that Nie Huaisang would have killed him too if he could have. He remembers how that assumption had hurt, and how it had taken him years of isolation to finally realise that what he had felt for Nie Huaisang, just like what he had felt for Jin Guangyao, had gone beyond the acceptable limits of friendship. A realisation come too late, supposing there could ever have been a right time for the three of them.

What a fool he'd been, loving those two men who must have despised him for his weaknesses.

What a fool he must still be, having learned nothing from the past.

#xisang #xiyao #xisangyao #lan xichen #nie huaisang #counterfeit au #it's a short one but eh we're not ready to enter the second part of the fic #this is a treat to myself for surviving this fucking week #jau writes #mdzs

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thatmultifandomhoe · 3 years

Text

Knitting You a Home - 3

Pairing: Wolf Hybrid Namjoon and Human Reader

Word Count: 4.7k

Genre/Rating: Hybrid AU - Established Relationship - Angst - Fluff - Smut - PG-13

Overview: Things have changed for you and Namjoon. It’s been a year since the two of you got together, and despite a rocky start, it was impossible to deny the bond and love you shared for each other. But ever since Hoseok had been separated from his Mate, Namjoon has been withdrawing himself from you and doesn’t come home until late at night.

With questions far larger than either of you imagined, you can’t help but wonder if he’s let his past and old fears come back to haunt him. You had shown him that it was possible to have a home and be loved once before, but will you be able to do it again?

Warning: Implied abuse from previous owners.

Playlist:

Main Master List:

Knitting You a Home Master List:

Mated Love is Never Easy Master List:

Sneak Peak - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14 - Part 15 - ?

©thatmultifandomhoe Do not repost, translate, or use my stories without permission.

Namjoon groaned as he stood from his desk chair, the cracking of his back echoing the small room. The moment he had come back from visiting you at work was probably the last time he had moved, and that had been hours ago.

He knew that if you were here, you’d probably scold him for sitting for so long until he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you onto his lap. He could picture you struggling for a few moments and try to reclaim your argument, but all it would take was him nuzzling your neck for you to melt in his embrace.

The daydream, like always, brought a smile to Namjoon’s face. He wasn’t sure when the last time you came to visit him at work was, but he was willing to bet that Ma wouldn’t mind watching over the store for you to do so either.

Although…with a glance around his studio, his lips curled into a smirk as he stared at the couch he had against the wall near the door. It was question on whether or not work would get done then.

Rolling his neck, he stretched an arm above his head and held it for a few seconds before doing the same to the other. It was another late night for him and Yoongi. The rapper they were working with had decided that he no longer liked the vibe of one of the songs, so they were forced to scrap it as the artist worked on finding his, ‘muse’ as he told them. Until they had a new version, they were busy finishing up the other tracks in the time being.

After hearing every version of all twelve songs, he knew them all by heart at this point. Which was probably why when someone knocked on his door, he didn’t hesitate to lean over the desk and pause the music, calling out for them to come in.

“What’s up Yoongi?” Namjoon asked, smelling his friend’s familiar scent as he entered.

Yoongi grunted, the door shutting behind him on its own as Namjoon straightened up, turning around in time to see his friend lounging out on the couch, his cat tail lazily hanging over the edge.

“I’ve been up since four,” the cat hybrid murmured, his eyes slowly looking around the room.

Not surprising, Namjoon thought. With a twist of his hand, he turned the chair around to face Yoongi and sat back down, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “Then go home. There’s not much left for us tonight.”

Yoongi finally looked up at his friend. “Yet we’re still here at…” He glanced behind Namjoon to see the time on the computer. “…midnight.”

Raising an eyebrow, Namjoon glanced at the watch around his wrist, startled to see that it was as late as Yoongi said. By now you’d be in bed, hopefully sleeping, but he knew that you wouldn’t be able to fall asleep until he got home safely.

“Go home,” Yoongi suggested, seeing the flash of disappointment on Namjoon’s face. “You’re the one with a wife at home. Go be with her Joon.”

At the mention of you, he sharply inhaled, suddenly shifting in his chair and turning sideways so he could see the computer screen. However, next to his computer was a picture of you and him.

He was sitting on the couch with you in-between his legs, his arms wrapped around your waist to keep you close as you held your arm out to take the selfie, all while holding up the official adoption document in your other hand. The two of you were smiling and at the time, the right side of your neck hadn’t been marked yet.

It was one of his favorite pictures, one of the happiest days of his life, but it also served as a reminder of the dreams that he had taken away from you.

“Angel’s not my wife,” Namjoon softly corrected, his favorite nickname for you soothing his emotions for a brief moment.

The atmosphere in the studio immediately shifted. The easy and slightly stressed out tension dropped as Namjoon’s emotions slipped, changing to reflect on his sadness and disappointment. Usually he had a tight grip on his feelings when his friends were around, but this time, he didn’t care enough to reign them back in right away.

Yoongi’s ears pressed down to his skull, his tail swaying back in forth in distraught as Namjoon’s emotions washed over him. It was nowhere near as bad as when Hoseok grieved over being separated from Sarah, but it was close enough to remind Yoongi of that.

“Is she okay?” Yoongi sat up, wondering if you had been hurt in any way. If that were the case, then why was Namjoon here? His instincts wouldn’t have let him leave you while his mate was hurt.

Namjoon nodded, taking the pencil that had been laying on the desk. “She’s fine.”

“Then what’s…” Frowning, Yoongi’s tail lightly hit his leg as he thought, trying to understand the sudden turn in events. In the last year, the only time he recalled Namjoon being withdrawn, was when they first met. All Yoongi had said was to go home and be with…his wife.

“Namjoon,” he gently called out, watching as the wolf Hybrid refused to look at him. “She’s your Mate. It’s the same thing.”

“No, it’s not,” Namjoon bitterly said, lightly tossing the pencil back on to his desk, watching it bounce a few times before landing on the floor. Staring at the photograph, at your unmarked neck, his eyes watered up. “Angel will never be my wife, Yoongi. She’ll only ever be my owner.”

Running a hand through his hair, Yoongi clenched his jaw, trying to not let Namjoon’s emotions distract him. He took a deep breath, refusing to be suffocated by the guilt and frustration his friend felt. “We’re Hybrids, Namjoon. In our world she is your Mate. She bears your Mate Mark. Angel is, to use the human’s term, your wife.”

A whine ripped through Namjoon as he turned to look at his friend, feeling Yoongi’s own disappointment and pain as a result of his own emotions. Yoongi just didn’t understand it.

“No.” He simply said, shaking his head. “The humans will never see us as husband and wife. One request to see my adoption papers is all that it’ll take for them to make up their minds once they see her name. They might humor us and say we’re Mates, but to them, she’ll always be my owner. I’ll never be able to call her my wife and be taken seriously.”

Yoongi stared at his friend, blown away at the sudden anger that swirled around him. He had known that this bothered Namjoon, but never in a million years did he think that it was kept locked up deep inside him.

Despite the law changes in the last twenty years, Hybrids had more rights now than when they were first created. But for some reason, humans never did away with the law denying marriage between a Hybrid and their owner, even when lawmakers knew that it was a common occurrence.

Apparently, a Hybrid marrying their owner was seen as, inhumane.

Even with that one law, it typically didn’t matter what the humans thought, as long as the Mate bore the Mate Mark, then they were a married couple in Hybrid society. The mark served as not only a physical declaration, but the mate’s scent would no longer be just theirs, but a mix of their own and who had marked them, announcing to every Hybrid in the area that they were together.

A wedding was simply done for the human’s benefit.

Namjoon knew all this. So why was he refusing to listen to facts?

Licking his lips, Yoongi remembered a similar reaction coming from Namjoon, back when it was winter and the two of them had been walking with Hoseok to Sarah’s shop, when they had forgotten about the laws.

“Is this all because of last winter?” He asked, knowing that it was true when Namjoon’s ears rested on his head. “Joon, why? Why are you dwelling on that?”

He shook his head. It was stupid and Yoongi was right. You were his Mate and that meant more to Namjoon than anything in the world. But it riddled him with guilt because he would never be able to give you what you wanted.

“I’m still part human,” he simply answered, staring at the floor. “I’m not just some animal like they want to think.”

There was no doubt about that. Every Hybrid was still half human, and even with the laws that had been created to protect them from abusers, there were still people who were prejudice against them simply because their DNA wasn’t one hundred percent human. It was something that every Hybrid dealt with at some point in their life. There was no getting around it, unless by some miracle you were raised within a home with purely kind humans. That was a rarity, but after seeing you and Namjoon together, and then Hoseok and his Mate, it gave Yoongi hope that the future generation wouldn’t have to suffer like they had.

Namjoon roughly wiped his eyes, forcing back the tears so that they wouldn’t slip out. Now that he had spoken his piece, he began to collect his emotions, hating that he had let them out in the first place.

Standing up, Yoongi silently walked across the floor and to Namjoon’s desk, opening the drawer on the left-hand side. Inside was a notebook, battered from use and if Yoongi were to flip through the pages, he’d find Namjoon’s delicate handwriting filling the pages. Lines crossed out and rewritten. Some underlined and with coffee stains or doodles in the corner.

He waited for Namjoon to take the journal before speaking again. “Then write it out. Take all the fucked-up crap the humans’ dish out about us, and serve it back to them. Make them regret everything they’ve said and done to us, but Namjoon…don’t you ever forget that you have a Mate back home who loves, and we both know she waits up for you to come home.”

The notebook fit perfectly in Namjoon’s hands. It had been a gift from you in the early days, not even a week after he came to stay with you and it became clear that he was incapable of sleeping through an entire night, without having nightmares.

“Write.” You said, gently smiling at Namjoon.

He took the notebook from you. It was simple with a brown moleskin cover and a spiral ring to make it easier to turn the pages. “Write what?” He asked, turning it over in his hands as if it would reveal the reason for why you gave him this.

You shrugged. “Whatever you want. It’s yours now. Notes about your day, ideas, thoughts that you want to remember. Hell, you can even write a grocery list if you want. I saw it while at the store and thought…well I thought if you wrote in it, it might help you to sleep at night.”

As you explained, he looked up from the journal to watch your reaction, seeing that you were being genuine. Your emotions were nothing but kind and wanting to help him, and it surprised him. You were different from the others, and he couldn’t help but wonder why.

But he didn’t get the chance to ask. Instead you glanced at the kitchen with a smile, getting out of your seat. “I can smell the cookies baking from here. They should be done soon, but I wanted to give you this before you went back to your room for the night.”

And write, he did.

It took some time for him to feel comfortable writing about the nightmares that plagued him, the memories that were so realistic he tasted the blood building up in his mouth when he abruptly woke up in the middle of the night.

He had tired documenting his memories, but each attempt had been painful and felt wrong. It wasn’t until he began to write songs that everything fell in to place. Growing up, he had attempted songwriting as a way to cope with his life, and he thought the habit had long since been forgotten over the years, but it came back to him like he never stopped.

The lyrics, the beats and melodies he found himself hearing in his mind and tapping out on the flat surfaces were coming to him like water drifting in a river.

“Go home,” Yoongi encouraged once again. “Go home to her. Go to bed. I’ll finish up listening to the songs and make sure everything’s set for tomorrow. Okay?”

There was no more arguing with Yoongi. He was right. Sleep and holding you close was what Namjoon needed, and with how his visit had gone at the store this afternoon, he knew you needed it too. With a nod, he stood up from his chair, watching Yoongi settle into it and scoot closer to the desk.

The conversation wasn’t over though. Maybe just for tonight, but they both knew that it would come up again whether they wanted it to or not. This wasn’t something that could be buried forever. For right now, they were both willing to cover it up until they weren’t exhausted and emotional.

“Thanks Yoongi,” Namjoon slipped his bag over his shoulder, stealing a glance at the photograph once more.

Yoongi merely waved it away, his tail waving back and forth. “Don’t worry about it. Get some sleep for both of us.”

He watched as Namjoon left, and even then, he didn’t turn back to the computer until he could no longer hear his footsteps. With a shake of his head, Yoongi sighed as he stared at the same photograph.

He wondered if Namjoon knew that back then, even without you having his Mate Mark, they looked like a couple in love. That even back then, they were always destined for each other. Whether the laws wanted to accept them or not.

The world passed by Namjoon, although there wasn’t much of it to see at this hour. Besides the bus driver, he was the only passenger which wasn’t uncommon. Many nights he wanted to tell you about the people he saw on the bus only to have wait until morning when you were awake, settling for scribbling reminders into his notebook.

The lack of passengers never bothered him. The quiet was actually comforting to him after listening to music all day, the silence allowed his mind to wander as he watched people through the window. Tonight however, he was focused on the flyer he held.

Chewing on his bottom lip, he wasn’t too surprised that this had been on the bulletin board, but the fact that he had discovered it under the hundred other posters was a miracle in itself. The thin white flyer was advertising an underground rap battle taking place at the Lotus.

He had been to Lotus a few times with you, but he wasn’t able to recall where exactly a rap battle would be able to place. The last time he was there, bodies had been pressed against each other as strobe lights bounced off of jewelry and exposed skin, recalling how you were lit up in blues and pinks while you danced against his front with a drink in a free hand, the music thumping in his ears as he stole sips from your glass.

Maybe there was a place for it. He had just been too preoccupied to look for it.

“Alright Namjoon, we’re here.”

Lifting his head, he was surprised to see that they were already at the last stop for the bus. “Thanks Jerry, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Son, don’t you ever sleep?” Jerry turned in his seat to look back at Namjoon.

Namjoon simply grinned, folding the flyer in half and sticking it in his pocket as his tail bumped against one of the poles. “When wolves start sleeping at night I will.”

Jerry chuckled, waving as Namjoon exited the bus to begin the walk back home.

The bus stop was a twelve-minute walk from home and like with riding the bus, he enjoyed this time to himself. Besides you, the only company he needed was the one that nature provided all on its own. Crickets chirping in the grass, the fluttering of the tree leaves as birds and owls moved around. It was peaceful, and right now, that was what he wanted.

Deep down, he knew that Yoongi was right. That in their world, you were rightfully his wife, the Mate Mark simply taking place of a wedding ring. His heart knew it and so didn’t his soul, but his mind kept fighting it.

The human side of him knew that without a wedding certificate and wedding bands, society wouldn’t acknowledge him as your husband. They might lightly toss around the term Mate, but they would never mean it. To them, he was your Hybrid and nothing more.

Reaching for his phone in his other pocket, he slowly unwrapped the earbuds, slipping one in his ear while scrolling through his music. He would have put in the other, but the memory of you worrying that people might sneak up on him without hearing them came to mind and kept him from doing so. It had been adorable to see you so concern about him, and since he hadn’t had anyone to worry about him in the first place, he didn’t have the heart to tell you that his other set of ears would have picked up on the sound of twig snapping off in the distance.

What bothered him the most about all this, was that he had known. He had known since he first started living with you that you dreamed about one day marrying the love of your life. As he walked down the memorized path, his mind wandered back to that morning.

Namjoon’s ear flicked towards the closed bedroom door as he laid in bed, the blankets pulled up to his chin as he forced himself to remember where he was, like he has been for the last three days.

He had come to stay with you at your house due to the overcrowding at the Shelter, all the scents and noises had been too much for him. Your place was quiet, allowing him to uncoil and calm down.

The most important thing, was that he was safe here.

If memory served right, then today was the start of the weekend. Glancing at the clock that you had on the nightstand, he doubtfully looked back at the door and then back at the device, wondering if it was wrong. It was six in the morning.

From the bedroom he was able to hear low voices and the soft pap of your footsteps against the wooden floor. That was you alright. But why you were awake? Weren’t weekends meant to be used for sleeping in?

Sitting upright, he ran a hand through his hair, his other hand clenching the blankets as he scanned the room once again. Did this mean you were expecting him to be up too? You had been nothing but nice to him since the night of the storm, but he knew how things have a habit of not being what they seem. It had been three days and already you exceeded his expectations of him staying with you.

It was like…you enjoyed his company.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden buzzing, your hurried footsteps echoing this time instead of being quiet. He waited with bated breath, at first thinking that you had been running to the guest bedroom that you told him he could stay in, but there was nothing but silence right outside his door.

Namjoon pushed back the blankets and stood up, making sure to smooth out the blankets and pillows so that they appeared undisturbed, leaving the room once he was satisfied. He was curious as to what was happening, but he hadn’t been expecting the smells to hit him.

The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled his senses as a sweet tart had his mouthwatering. Without thinking, he followed the smells to where it opened up into the living room and kitchen, spotting you by the counter. Next to him, the TV was on to a show with women wearing white dresses, the volume turned down to low so it didn’t travel down the hall to the bedrooms.

His footsteps were silent as he entered the kitchen, curiously watching you plate the large muffins onto a glass plate. In front of you was a light blue mug with steam wafting up from it. With a deep inhale, he realized these were the things he had been smelling.

As if you had been expecting him, you turned to look at Namjoon, gently smiling as you plated the last muffin. “I’d thought you be sleeping for a while,” you spoke, setting the empty tray back on top of some potholders he hadn’t noticed.

Namjoon didn’t speak, and apparently, you didn’t mind. “I’m so used to getting up early that it’s hard to sleep in sometimes. So, I tend to do a lot of baking in the morning to have something to do.”

You reached up to brush a loose strand of hair back, automatically patting the back of your hair to make sure that it hadn’t fallen out of the messy bun you threw it up in. Still dressed in bed clothes, an oversized shirt that was tied at the side and a pair of thin pajama pants, you took one of the small plates and set a blueberry muffin on it, handing it to Namjoon.

He raised an eyebrow in surprise, hesitating to take it.

But you waited, and after a few minutes, he carefully took the plate.

“They just came out of the oven so they’re hot,” you reminded, pointing at the butter and the knife on the table. “I recommend cutting it in half and spreading some butter on them, they taste so good.”

Namjoon didn’t move.

With a lick of your lips, he saw the emotions in your eyes waver as you made your own plate and went to the table, doing exactly what you had suggested he do. He knew that you were holding your emotions in check for him, but he didn’t say anything as he started to copy your movements. At the sight of the butter melting on the hot muffin, his stomach growled, making his cheeks flush in embarrassment.

“There’s more than enough if you want a second,” you gently encouraged. He didn’t even need to look up to hear the smile in your voice.

The morning after the storm, trees had been knocked down so you had stayed home while the roads were getting cleared, claiming you didn’t want to get caught up in the cleanup. At lunch time you had knocked on his door to tell him that lunch was ready if he was hungry, and despite your promises that it was okay, he lingered at the hallway, unsure if you were sincere that he could not only just eat, but to enter the room. When he finally joined you at the table, he had sensed your shock at how little he had taken – barely enough to feed a small child – and again you encouraged him to eat as much as he wanted.

He never said it, but he had heard crying coming from your room that night. His ears had flattened against his skull at the muffled sound of your sadness, feeling a wave of the emotions you were experiencing. You may not have known what Namjoon had gone through, but you had begun to piece together the possibilities.

“Would you like some coffee too?”

Your voice had roused him from his thoughts, glancing up at you to see you pointing at the mug you had set on the table. Another sniff and he was nodding, watching you smile before going around him to get a second mug, this one a warm orange, and recreated the drink.

“Here you go,” you murmured, your smile growing as he accepted it without waiting.

He was hungry and for the first time, he was starting to feel okay with taking the things that you were giving him.

"I’m going to sit on the couch,” you explained, drinking your own coffee as you picked up your plate again. “You can join me if you want.” With that, you went into the living room, comfortably sitting down as you turned the volume up a little bit.

Namjoon didn’t join you right away. Instead, he readjusted the grip he had on the mug, and cautiously took a sip. Instantly the inside of his chest warmed up, the slightly bitter taste of the coffee beans waking up his mind that was still foggy from sleeping.

He stared at you from where he stood, awake but confused. Why were you being so polite, so kind to him? Was there something you wanted from him that he hadn’t been able to sense yet? Yet every time he tried to understand your emotions, he got nothing but unrelenting patience and happiness from you. He hadn’t even spoken to you yet, and you were happy he was here. At least, that’s what he was assuming from how you felt.

Making up his mind, he quietly sat on the other end of the couch with a seat in between you and him, gingerly taking a bit out of the blueberry muffin now that it wasn’t so hot it hurt. It was like heaven in fluffy bread that melted in his mouth, the blueberries bursting with sweetness and the occasional bitter taste.

On the TV, a woman said yes to a dress and her friends were screaming in happiness, capturing his attention as he tried to understand what was happening.

“They’re shopping for wedding dresses,” you explained, having seen the confused look on Namjoon’s face. “I’ve binge watched every episode for this show, I love seeing all the different gowns and weddings, gets me excited for the day that I get to go through this. But that won’t be for a long time.”

There was a longing in your voice that had peaked Namjoon’s interest, and as you explained, he noticed that your eyes had lit up with the unmentioned dream. He knew what marriage was and that humans didn’t always marry the right person, and while he didn’t really see the point in them, he hoped that one day you’d get to live out your dream.

You deserved it.

Namjoon winced as his shoes echoed in the silent entryway, snapping out of his memories when he sensed your steady heartbeat. It was with a start that he realized you were actually asleep, not just pretending to be like you usually did when he was this late.

It was good that you were asleep, but as he walked to the bedroom, guilt filled him at the thought of missing these quiet moments with you. Passing by the couch, he turned off the lamp that had been left on, enveloping the room in darkness.

He was already discarding his shirt when he entered the bedroom, tossing it in the hamper when he saw you. His body relaxed at the sight of you curled up under the blankets, your hair off of your neck to reveal your Mate mark. A soft growl came from him as he took his pants off, sliding under the blankets in just his underwear, too tired to bother pulling on a pair of sweat pants. Not that you would complain anyways.

On instinct, he curled his body around yours, wrapping an arm around your waist as he buried his face in your hair. Your scent of nutmeg and crisp apples was comforting him, the sound of your soft sigh and the way your body automatically curved backwards into his embrace even as you slept didn’t go unmissed by Namjoon.

With you in his arms, it was easy to push away the rest of the world, especially like this. But it also only served to remind him what he’d taken away from you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, kissing the Mate mark, lips brushing against your skin with every word. “I’m sorry I can’t fix this baby. I’m so sorry Angel.”

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longing-and-heartache-and-lust · 3 years

Text

the drug, the dark, the light, the flame, Ch.II

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A second chapter for my work for this year’s @geraskierbigbang with the wonderful @gen-syz-art as my artist ✨

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When Geralt wakes up in the morning, the sun is already high in the sky.

The bed is wide and comfortable, probably the most comfortable out of all the ones he'd ever slept in. The soft furs are a pleasant warmth against his bare skin and when he opens his eyes, he feels the most rested he'd been in a very long time.

It's long past breakfast and he feels a stab of guilt somewhere in his gut, seeing that he'd promised Julian he was going to join him but as it turned out, he was much more tired than he thought. The long weeks on the Path, the hunt the day before and the wounds on his shoulder have all worn him out, and it's only now that his body had finally caught on.

Geralt stretches with a soft moan, careful not to disturb his shoulder, and turns to his other side, looking around the room with heavy-lidded eyes.

In the warm light of the summer sun, it doesn't feel strange anymore.

The golds and reds of the interior make the room feel comfortable, even though it's a little too much for Geralt's taste. The room feels luxurious and Geralt can't even phantom the cost of the heavy velvet curtains or the paintings in golden frames but yet, it doesn't feel like too much .

It doesn't feel like a bedroom in a castle, where its only real purpose is showing the guests just how rich the host is. It feels like a bedroom of a home that someone loves and decorates accordingly. It just so happened that said home is an enormous mansion.

Geralt counts twelve pillows and cushions on the bed, all of them a deep ruby colour and varying in sizes, and, against his own better judgement, burrows himself deeper into them, his entire body melting into the soft silk sheets.

It's the exact opposite of what he should do, he knows it. He knows that this is not meant for him, that he's not supposed to pass the time in beds like this, burrowed in what probably are the best furs in the entire region, but somewhere deep in his bones, his body still aches with exhaustion and stress, and if he can have this, just once in his life, he's going to take it.

He just doesn't have it in him to deny himself this opportunity.

And Roach, he tells himself, needs a little more rest, too.

The forest behind the giant arc-shaped windows is tranquil, the wind a soft, calming whisper through the treetops, and Geralt doesn't even notice when he falls asleep again, warm and comfortable.

***

The second time he wakes, the sun is at its zenith, so it must be around midday.

Cursing under his breath, Geralt makes himself sit up on the bed and then get out of it completely, though very reluctantly. He'd never really had problems with getting out of bed, even when he was still an adept in Kaer Morhen and had to get up before sunrise every morning, and now this unfamiliar gravity feels strange but not unpleasant.

As he dresses, there is a knock on the door, and when he opens it, there is a tall man waiting in the hallway. Geralt can tell that he is in his fifties but the formal suit and perfect posture make him look younger.

"Master Witcher," he greets. "I hope I have not disturbed you. Master Julian asked me to take you into the dining room once you have woken up."

The majordomo, Geralt thinks.

He nods, saying that he needs a few minutes, and goes back to his armour, tightening all the straps and clasping the buckles, once again feeling a little twist of guilt for not having joined Julian in the morning, as he'd promised. It was plain rude of him, really, and though there weren't a lot of things that Geralt hated more than apologising, he knew he'd going to have to.

After all, there was only so much he could do.

He fixes the swords behind his back and looks around the room just one more time before stepping out of it and closing the door. It's almost upsetting that he'd only got to spend one night in a bed like that.

The majordomo takes him through the corridors and with the warm light streaming through the windows, they don't look ominous anymore, though the witcher still finds them absolutely endless. There are paintings, sculptures and potted plants along the walls, and though Geralt tries not to, he still finds himself looking around a little more than he should.

When they do finally reach the dining room with a big oil painting hung on one of the walls right across from the table, Julian isn't there.

"He must be outside," the butler says, turning around. "If you would follow me, master Witcher."

When the man walks past him, Geralt can feel his medallion hum against his chest but it stops just as abruptly, so he frowns but doesn't pay it much mind.

They take one of what Geralt assumes are many doors to the garden and it's only now that he realises how big it is. What he'd seen last night was but a fraction.

The trees and neatly shaped bushes surround the mansion from all sides, keeping it separated from the forest behind the gates, and it almost feels like a world of its own, independent from the one outside.

Geralt's senses immediately fill with the scent of blooming flowers and ripe fruit, the sound of bird songs and running water somewhere in the distance. A fountain, he decides.

And then, among those sounds, there's Julian's voice.

"Geralt," he smiles, appearing from somewhere behind the corner, a hand over his eyes to protect them from the sun. "I see you've already met Arthur."

"I have," the witcher nods, realising belatedly that he should've asked the majordomo's name himself.

Fuck, he thinks, I am not made for this kind of life.

"I hope you can forgive me for not having joined you for breakfast," he adds and he feels ridiculous , talking this way, but in a place like this, he can't help but feel like he's at court. "As it turns out, fighting off monsters is easier than the gravity of a bed like that."

Julian's smile shines brighter and he laughs, narrowing his eyes at the sun.

"Don't worry about it," he says. "I'm glad you've had some proper rest. But I’m afraid I cannot let you go with an empty stomach.”

It’s already past midday and Geralt knows that he should get going if he wants to get to the town he came from with no rush, get his coin and leave for the next one but he also knows that he can’t refuse.

“Come,” Julian says, brushing his hand over Geralt's arm and beckoning him deeper into the garden towards an arbour. “I’ll ask the stableman to get your horse ready while we eat.”

***

Without really realising, Geralt stays for a couple more hours.

Julian asks him about what’s led him to these regions - aside from the contract - and Geralt just… talks.

It’s easy, somehow - talking to him.

It almost feels natural and in the warm light of the day, Geralt doesn’t feel overwhelmed anymore.

He tells Julian about how he was headed to Oxenfurt when he’d heard about the contract that had led him here and then hums in agreement when, after a moment or two, Julian asks if he’s from the School of the Wolf.

“You seem to know the Schools much better than the majority of people I come across on the Path,” Geralt says, very dimly aware of how much time had passed.

Julian just shrugs with one shoulder, a smile on his lips, and gestures towards the library windows with a move of his wrist.

“I’ve read quite a lot about witchers, ever since the Academy,” he explains. “I’ve been friends with a medical student and one of her professors was rather… passionate about mutagens and the Trials. He would tell his students his thoughts on the matter every now and then, and she would then tell them to me, because we used to tell each other everything. I got interested and, before I really knew it, I’ve read everything the library could provide on the subject.”

An academic interest, Geralt thinks, watching the way Julian’s cornflower-blue eyes flick to the medallion on his chest and then back to one of the rose bushes that he’d been using as a distraction point during the entire conversation. When his gaze would linger for a little too long and he would notice, it would immediately snap to the rosebush.

It was almost… pleasant, the way he looked at Geralt with a glint in his eyes.

“And, well,” Julian goes on after a moment, meeting Geralt’s eyes again with an easy, relaxed smile. “My previous witcher guest was rather talkative. He stayed here for a couple of days and, once he learned about my interest, proposed that as a gratitude for my hospitality, he shall answer any questions that I might have about witchers. I took on the opportunity and, somehow, we stayed up until the early hours of the morning, just talking, every day that he was here.”

Geralt chuckles, reluctantly admitting to himself that maybe, if he was to stay for another day or two, they could also stay up and talk well into the night.

But, of course, that is not an option. Roach is well-rested, and his shoulder is bandaged, there are no more reasons for him to stay. After all, he was an uninvited guest, to begin with.

But even so, he almost feels sorry that he has to leave, because Julian just… talks to him.

Like they’re equals, like Geralt isn’t a result of Trials and mutations - a monster hunter, yes - but also a killer. He doubts that there is anyone in the North that has not heard of The Butcher of Blaviken, the white-haired witcher that had caused carnage in the middle of the town.

But Julian doesn’t smell of fear, doesn’t smell of hatred. He talks to him not like Blaviken had never happened, he talks to him like he knows why it happened. Like he knows he had to choose between two wrong options and not choosing at all was more than he could bear.

Don’t get lost in your illusions, Geralt has to tell himself quickly, cutting his train of thought short, He’s just abiding by the rules of hospitality, he doesn't even know about Blaviken.

“What did you say his name was?” he asks, just to drown out his own voice in his head. “Aiden?”

Julian hums an affirmative and it almost feels like that name is familiar to Geralt, but he can’t remember, how. Must’ve heard it somewhere, he decides.

“I’ve seen him a couple more times after that, actually,” Julian says. “Whenever he’s nearby, he comes to visit.”

When Geralt bites his tongue, it’s too late and the question had already been spoken:

“Just a friend?”

Fuck, he thinks, immediately.

Julian’s eyes snap to meet his, slightly widened with surprise and Geralt half-expects anger but the younger man just laughs, open and sweet, like a birdsong.

“Yes, for better or for worse,” he says. “There is another that owns his heart. Or, at least, so I’m told.”

Geralt has no idea on what he’s supposed to say to that so, instead, he chooses to stand up promptly.

“Well,” he says, controlling his voice carefully. “I’m afraid, I must leave now. The alderman must be expecting me.”

Julian stands up, as well, and, thankfully, doesn’t comment on the much more obvious reason for the witcher’s sudden desire to leave. And if he does take Geralt up and down once before stepping out of the arbour and leading his back towards the stables, Geralt admits that he deserves it.

***

“I hope the alderman pays you what he’d promised,” Julian says when they reach the gates, Geralt leading Roach by the reins.

He’s usually good at reading people’s emotions - either by smell or by the look in their eyes - but the shadow that slithers across the blue of Julian’s eyes when he looks at the forest beyond the gates is not something he can identify. His scent changes, too, an undertone of something that Geralt can’t describe in any way other than longing mixing into Julian’s own smell - something warm and almost familiar, like vanilla and dried herbs.

This time Geralt stops himself in time and doesn’t ask.

“Thank you,” he says instead, pulling himself up into the saddle. “For everything. Last night would’ve been a hard one if it wasn’t for you.”

Julian smiles at him, running his hand up and down Roach’s neck which, strangely, she seems to enjoy.

“My pleasure,” he replies and when he takes his hand away, Geralt has to tell himself that the way the tips of his fingers brush over his knee is accidental.

Julian opens the gates and steps aside to let Geralt and Roach through, Lucio and Asra at his side like they have always been there, even though the witcher is sure that they were absent back in the arbour.

“Travel safe,” Julian says when Geralt turns around to look at him and the mansion one last time.

It’s strange, hearing it from anyone other than his brothers or Vesemir, and though he replies with only a carefully guarded nod, it turns something over deep inside his chest.

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskier big bang #geralt of rivia #geralt x jaskier #geralt/jaskier #the drug the dark the light the flame #my writing #calton writes

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detroitbydark · 4 years

Text

Chapter 11

Characters: Fox/Mouse (reader), appearances from Hound, Thire, Rule, Mace Windu, Yoda, and Padmé Amidala.

Warning: angst (y’all want me to hirt you right?)

A/N: so get ready to read nearly 6000 words of Fox’s self loathing, the CG being supportive vod, Jedi being Jedi, and Mouse being hurt yet again.

Current

The choices had been fresh ink or gut-rot barracks hooch. Fox chose the ink.

He’s down in the levels, he can’t remember which one exactly, far enough from prying eyes and questioning vod, that was all that had really mattered. The artist, a pantoran with a nice portfolio, was busy laying out the design. He can feel the cool transfer as it’s pressed over his heart and he drags in a ragged breath. This was penance. This was the closure he needed. He’d messed up. For two weeks he’d messed up and now any chance he had was gone along with her.

“You wanna talk about it, man?” The tattoo artist asks as he peels away the flimsy leaving the outline on his skin.

“No”

Two weeks earlier

Fox hates the sterile smell of the hospital, the beige walls, the gleaming metal all around. It reminds him of Kamino and a medbay he’d spent more than enough time in. He was never quite as strong or quite as fast as the other CCs in his batch, men that would go on to bear monikers like Gree and Bly and Wolffe. He made up for it in other ways. His mind was sharp, quick to come to a plan of action, he could think on his feet.

He remembers Sargent Kal coming into the CC classroom one day for a talk on urban combat- something that had piqued CC-1010’s interest from the word go- and how by the end of the lesson he’d ended up the star of the day. His observations as they’d talked through scenarios had left Kal remarking that he was “Sly as a Fox” and that the Triple Zero would be a good place for the likes of him. He was only the second in his batch to earn a name and he wore it around like a badge of honor.

Now he didn’t feel so honorable or so sly. He felt a lot of other things though. The psych droid, a loathsome device of he'd ever seen one, had talked him through what had happened in the Supreme Chancellor’s suite. It had questioned him over and over, maybe expecting the answers to change, about what his part in the assassination of Sheev Palpatine had been. He was tired. He wanted to wrap himself around his cyar’ika and pretend the whole day had been a nightmare.

That was impossible, she was somewhere else in the hospital being treated, shoved into a bacta tank. It had only been Rex’s firm voice that had convinced Fox to let the medic’s anywhere near her. When he’d let them take her limp body away from him-

Fierfek.

The handprint- a bloody partial across the left side of his breastplate, was still there.

“Commander Fox” a familiar voice cuts through the silent world of the room“ Much to think about you have“

He recognizes the Jedi Master, Yoda, immediately. There was no one else the ancient green Jedi could be mistaken for.

“I prefer to not“ being around a force wielder was not high on Fox’s current list of things to do.

“Such Is life”

“With all due respect sir,” he can hear the petulance in his own voice but he has neither the energy nor will to rein it in “I didn’t ask for this life.”

“But given to you it was, nonetheless. Choices you must make with what to do with it.“

Fox is quiet and the small Jedi Master matches it until the door opens again and General Windu joins the pair. Fox meets his gaze and the Jedi nods solemnly.

“Much discussion Master Windu and I have had these last few hours-“

“So it’s back to Kamino then? Reconditioning or Termination?” Fox can’t hide the bitterness in his voice. He doesn’t want to. He wants the world -or at least the two Jedi in the room- to see his pain. To feel it like he was.

Yoda sighs and moves to him, walking stick clicking in time with his steps. He hops up on the cold metal table next to Fox in a way that makes Fox think that the walking stick was not really necessary. He fights the urge to move away.

“A great disservice has been done to you, Commander. No, Kamino is not where you belong, deserve punishment you do not.”

The words burn. Fox is trapped between relief and a slow simmering rage, one that demands he be punished for his inability to protect those most vulnerable. First Fives. Now Mouse. He failed because he was weak-

“Stop” General Windu’s voice is firm. The look on Fox’s face must read pure terror because the Jedi huffs softly, “I don’t need to see inside your head to know what you're thinking. It’s all over your face. Do you know the kind of power Sidious possessed? To fight off that kind of insinuation would have been nearly impossible and that was before the chip-“

“The chip?” Fox attempts to rise to his feet but three green fingers press down on his arm. He looks down at the tired, ancient face of the Jedi Master and sits back down. “What of the chip? What has it got to do in all of this?”

The answer is simple. Everything.

Fox sits in cold shock as the Jedi describe to him what they’d learned of Palpatine’s- no, Sidious’ plans for the clone army. He stops them once to go to the bathroom and vomit. It wasn’t just Tup and Fives and him. It was all his vode. The entire clone army programmed to turn on their leaders, their friends with the utterance of a single phrase. He thinks of the hints Bly had made about his Jedi when they’d last spoken.

For a moment it’s more than he can fathom, and he holds a hand up for quiet. The Jedi allow it. He gives himself a minute, just one, before he pulls himself together, before he sits up straight and pushes the anguish, hurt, and the dirty feelings deep down.

“What now?” The implications of what has happened are finally becoming clear “The Republic can’t know the truth. There’ll be chaos in the streets. They’ll turn against the clones entirely” Fox worries more for his brothers than ever before. If the citizens knew…

“Correct you are, Commander” Yoda agrees..

“It needs to stay under wraps. The only people that will ever know it was anything other than an sudden death by natural causes will be us and the others that were in that room. Skywalker, Captain Rex, and-“

“Don’t say her name” it comes out as a growl, “leave her out of this.”

“There she was, Commander. Secrets she must learn to keep.”

Fox’s nails bite into the palms of his hands, “you won’t-“ he can’t bring himself to say the words.

“We will not force thoughts into her head.” Mace clarifies. “From what I’ve heard of her I think she’ll understand our reasoning for secrecy. Her injuries will be said to come from a mugging. You’ll fill out the report. Wrong place wrong time”

Wasn’t that the truth.

Fox nods slowly, “and what of my brothers?”

“Come out the chips must.” Fox flinches when a green finger taps at his temple, “but uncomplicated and quick it is.”

“We will let it be known that the chips are faulty and to continue to use them puts the clones in danger of having unforeseen medical problems.” Mace’s eyes narrow as Fox scoffs. He raises a brow challengingly, “do you think they’d rather know that they were all ticking timebombs? That at any moment they’d be triggered into mindless killers? Pawns?”

A tense moment passes with the two men glaring at one another. Of course Fox doesn’t think that would be any better.

“We’ll begin rotating troops through the nearest medical units capable of removal immediately.” Mace explains. “We can have the entire Coruscant Guard done by the end of the week and it appears with minimal down time. A day, tops.” He explains.

A quick nod is all the acknowledgement Fox can muster. He doesn’t like the idea of keeping the Guard in the dark and he hates having them undergo any medical procedure even more. He wasn’t the only clone who had lingering emotions when it came to the medbay, not by a long shot.

“I’ll go first.”

The Jedi at his side makes an agreeable hum. General Windu nods.

“As I would expect a good leader to do.”

Fox isn’t sure how much he buys into their approval.

13 days earlier

The official story was that Supreme Chancellor Sheev Palpatine had succumbed to a sudden illness. The holonews was ablaze with stories: from the official release to the tabloid fodder. Fellow politicians waxed poetic on him as a man and a leader, someone who stepped forward when the Republic was in its darkest hour to take control of the chaos.

It was said his last words were, “and sorry I couldn’t give more for my people and the galaxy.”

If Fox’s eyes rolled any harder he was sure they’d fly from his head and ping around in his bucket. Sidious was dead. He didn’t deserve the adoration of billions or the high honors of his burial. He was a hu’tuun. The skanah was better suited as feed for the carrion birds than the marble burial chamber he’s laid to rest in with military honors provided by clones he’d have used as weapons against the very Republic they swore to protect.

10 days earlier

Four days without Mouse and Fox feels twitchy. It’s been over a year since he’s gone more than two days without laying eyes on her. Knowing that she was recently released from the bacta tank doesn’t make it any easier. He’d not wanted to see her floating in the tank for a plethora of reasons, the least of which was his own guilt. That didn’t stop him from setting up a guard rotation at her door as soon as he was cleared to return to duty. It also didn’t stop him from demanding regular updates on her care from the kits he was setting up at her room.

Ryk had been present when she’d been taken out of the tank and said she’d seemed in good spirits as she’d slowly come too.

Wren had gently indicated that she’d love some company while she was on bed rest.

Rule had given him a look that screamed, ‘don’t be a scum sucking piece of nerf fodder.’ As he’d explained that Mous’ika had been asking for him.

She’d been asking for him. Even after everything she wanted to see him.

And he couldn’t do it.

He’d made his way twice to the nurses station before turning and making an excuse to leave.

He couldn’t look at her. Sidious’ words still swirled in his head. even though General Yoda had reassured him that he was no longer under the sway of the Sith, the thoughts still lingered.

You were supposed to use her to fuck your baser urges out.

She’s using you to obtain a foothold in the guard.

She’s fooled you all.

The underlying message was unmistakable.

Why would anyone choose to care for a clone?

Fox almost wishes the headaches would return so he could focus on the pain in his head vs. that dull empty ache in his chest, a black hole behind his rib cage, but he hasn’t had one since both the Sith Lord and the chip were removed from his life.

9 days earlier

Bail Organa is voted into the Chancellorship by an overwhelming number of his peers.

It’s the best choice, as far as Fox is concerned. With Senator Amidala announcing a leave of absence to give birth to the best guarded secret since the clone army, it’s the only choice Fox finds acceptable.

Not like anyone would ask his opinion.

Organa is a good man, even if he is a politician. He’s only ever looked out for the Republic, never given in to self indulgent whims, never taken more than he deserved.

Fox touches the fresh scar on the right side of his head gently as Holonet News continues to replay the new Chancellor's inauguration from earlier. Barely more than a week and everything has changed.

General Windu was correct, medical had been able to get through the entire guard in rapid fire. All of his men were sporting matching scars, many were more than a little curious as to the actual reason their chips had been removed. He’s both insanely proud and horribly frustrated at the theories being bandied about. Some far too close for comfort.

They can never know. Nobody can ever know.

But somehow Bail Organa knows.

He’s only had one meeting, early this morning before the inauguration, in private with the new Chancellor but he’d alluded to things that left Fox speechless. He’d known Bail to have friends in high places, but he hadn’t realized how high.

“Think he’ll do better than the last one?”

Thire hovers in the doorway, unmoving until Fox inclines his head toward the open seat across his desktop.

“Can’t be any worse.” There’s no humor in his tone but Thire huffs out a quiet laugh.

There’s a lag in the conversation, not like one has truly begun, and Fox takes a breath before setting down his datapad and flicking the holo off. “How long have we known one another?” He asks looking up at his lieutenant.

“Long enough.”

“So, you and I both know that you're here for something else and It's not just to make quips about the new Alor.”

“I suppose that’s true” Thire’s face gives nothing away. Fox liked that about the shock trooper. He was reserved, yes, but also pragmatic. A problem solver, not ruled by his emotions. Which was all well and good but something about the way he’s staring makes Fox feel like he’s the problem needing solving.

“Spit it out.”

“Go see her.”

Fox raises a brow in his vod’s direction. “Is that an order”

“Respectfully sir” the corner of Thire’s mouth quirks almost imperceptibly before it falls away.

The little shit.

In reality, Fox had known this one going to come from one of his men. He’d expected Rule or Hound, the more brash and aggressive boys, to be the ones but Thire is not a complete shock. He’d never seemed particularly close to Mouse but the lieutenant did play things close to the chest.

“She had a nightmare last night while I was on watch. Woke up crying your name.”

Inside Fox crumbles. No amount of talking to a psych droid was going to fix that feeling. No amount of time would make him feel ok about what he’d allowed to happen to the woman he loved. Thire continues.

“A clone's lot is not much. They decant us. They train us. They ship us out to fight in their war. We live, maybe. We die, more likely. Nothing is given to us.” Thire runs a hand over his head, fingers scratching at the crown. “Sometimes though, a di’kut like you gets a break. That woman in that bed cried in my arms. Talked to me like I was you for over an hour and I let her. You know why?”

Fox has to unclench his jaw, work past the jealous ache rising up in his chest to respond, “why?”

“Because it’s the closest I’ll ever have to feeling that kind of emotion. I’m not ashamed to say I pulled your girl into my lap, held her close and said soft things I didn’t even know I knew into her pretty hair until she calmed down. I was happy to pretend to be your atin’shebs but you know what the real kicker is, Vod?”

Fox’s hands are like vice grips on the edge of his seat, knuckles pale white as a shinies armor. The thought of Mouse hurting is one thing, but to have someone else be the one to comfort her? It tears at him. “What?” He asks through gritted teeth.

“When she calms down she says, “I know you're not him. Thank you for letting me pretend for a minute”.

7 days earlier

He pretends like he doesn’t know where he’s going. Like talking to the kriffing psych droid really had him so out of sorts he didn’t realize he was getting on a turbo lift and heading up three flights after his appointment.

He tries to act like he doesn’t know his feet are carrying him to the room with the familiar red and white sentinel outside the door.

Rule quirks his helmet before snapping to attention.

“Commander Fox, sir?”

“At ease Sargent.” It's late, well past visiting hours but the few sentient nurses and the droids assisting them make no move to rush him along. Perks of the armor.

Rule relaxes and glances through the small transparisteel window on the door behind him before turning back.

“She just had some medicine.” He explains, “pain was getting pretty bad again.”

Fox’s bucket hides his cringe, allowing him to outwardly remain impassive and aloof, his voice even as he asks simple questions about visitors and any possible issues arising.

“No problems here sir. I think I heard her Doc say something about discharge tomorrow. She’s doing ok” what isn’t said hangs in the air.

She’d be doing better if you were with her

“That’s good. That’s good” Fox agrees, readily avoiding the things left unspoken. “Have you been relieved for dinner?”

“I have a ration bar in my pack sir.”

“Do I need to say it?”

The sunny tone of Rule’s voice tells him everything he needs to know. He can imagine the shit eating grin that accompanies it. “I’m not entirely sure what you mean, sir?”

A quick glance up and down the hall shows nothing but gleaming white tile. No staff. No visitors. No one but Rule to bear witness to his moment of weakness.

“Take the night off Sargent. I’ll cover the watch.”

He stares at the emotionless visor for a beat waiting for his kit to argue, for him to make a smart comment.

It doesn’t happen.

Rule rolls his shoulders, stretching slightly as he makes his move past Fox. At the last second, Rule's hand shoots out, resting over Fox’s vambrace. The moment lingers without either speaking until Rule gently pulls the Commander in and knocks his bucket against Fox’s, pressing his forehead to his Commander’s.

Fox, claps a hand behind the sargents head and they sit there frozen for a moment in time, Rule offering more comfort in that one gesture than he’s felt in days. A Keldabe kiss to ease his fragile psyche.

“Alverde.” Rule offers quietly when the pair finally part.

“Sargent” Fox gives a minuscule nod. “Enjoy your night.” He watches the youngster head down the hall until he turns a corner and is gone from sight.

Fox manages to avoid looking in the room for five minutes exactly. He’s able to fight off the pull to enter it for another twenty. The draw of her is too much in the end and he finds himself slipping into her room before the first thirty minutes are even past.

The lights are low and the monitors and electronics surrounding her hum and buzz steadily. Everything is white and stark. His cyar’ika is nearly the same color as the sheet she lays under.

She looks small, and so achingly fragile Fox is afraid the weight of his look alone will break her. She shivers lightly and he lurches into motion, dragging the itchy comforter over her legs and tucking it around her shoulders. Her body stirs as his gloved hand grazes along her cheek.

He freezes as her eyes flutter open. Her pupils aren’t quite right. It seems to take her a moment to piece together what’s going on but when she does the realization that washes over her is visible.

“Fox” his name sounds like a long lost friend rolling from her lips. She struggles to sit up. A look of pain flashes across her face as she twists under the blankets.

“Stop that” he demands impotently, his gloves moving to press gently against her chest. “you’re going to hurt yourself.”

She blinks owlishly up at him in the way only a person on good pain meds can, like she doesn’t quite understand what’s been said and she’s not sure whether she should comply or question it. It’s somewhere between bemused and scared.

He cups her cheek in his hand, “easy precious girl.” He soothes. Mouse relaxes into his touch as his gloved thumb rubs softly. Her eyes flutter shut and he can feel the soft sound she makes against his palm.

This was already far past what he intended. He just wanted to see her, to prove to himself she was really alive and in one piece despite him.

Now, he finds himself already slipping into old habits.

More focused, her eyes open. Her hand slips up and grips his vambrace. Slowly she pulls his hand away from her face. She lets her fingers slip down into and through his. Her voice is thick with sleep when she speaks and Fox has to lean in to hear her.

“I knew you’d come”

Of course she had. Fox wonders if she knew him better than he knew himself. This was always going to happen no matter how many times he’d lied to himself. He pulls his hand away. Mouse’s hangs empty in the air for a moment before she sets it down over her chest.

The quiet burr and hum of the monitors around her are the only sound between them until he reaches up to his bucket and lets the seal pop with a soft hiss.

Her eyes scan his face as he sets the helm off to the side. There’s a question there he can’t decipher. “What can I do?”

A harsh laugh escapes Fox’s lips and Mouse frowns at him.

“I think you’ve done enough, cyar’ika.”

“Fox-“ it’s a scolding tone that holds no weight when she looks like a battered doll in a too big hospital bed. She closes her eyes when he doesn’t give in and offer her more.

The bed dips under his weight as he sits at the edge of it. “I just wanted to make sure you were, ok. Alright?” He holds back from touching her again. It takes an enormous amount of will.

“I’m ok, Fox. Because of you.”

It’s a lie. All of it. It can’t be anything else. “You're in a hospital bed,” he growls, pushing up to his feet and stalking toward the window. He can’t look at her. “You spent days floating in bacta. You-“

“I’m alive.”

“That’s not because of me.”

He hears the ruffle of sheets as he looks out over Coruscant. The lights of the buildings and speeders in the sky lanes, like stars in the polluted evening light.

“Fox-“ her hand touches his arm and he spins to steady her. Anger swells up in him.

“Kriff- Mouse, get back in bed” he orders lowly, “you’re going to get hurt.”

She sways gently on her feet in the too big hospital gown but her jaw is set, “will you listen to me?”

“Will you get back in bed?” Fox pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath before looking at her again. “Get back in bed and I’ll listen. Please.”

Mouse stands, arms crossed, glaring pointedly. Fox has had enough. Quick and smooth like a tactical insertion he scoops her up. Mouse makes a small noise as his arms slide behind her knees and his other arm cradles behind her shoulders. She breathes heavily as she looks up at him.

“You’re going back to bed.” He covers the small room in just a few steps. When he goes to set her down she slips her arms around his neck and holds on for dear life.

“I’m not getting back in that bed unless you come with me.”

“You’re not in the position to make demands.” But that’s a lie because, with him, she was always in the position to make demands. She just never had to.

“Please, Fox. I just want one good night. You can leave as soon as I'm asleep.”

It’s hard to say if it’s the tired tone of her voice, the smell of her skin so temptingly close, or just his own beaten down need to be close to her, regardless Fox gives in.

“The armor stays on.” He says as he settles into the bed, he tries to keep his boots off the bed the best he can. Mouse curls tighter against him. It can’t be comfortable against the plastoid but to look at her he’d never know. One hand rests along his jaw while the other wraps around his back keeping him from easily disentangling himself.

Fox can’t help himself as he slips one glove off and cards his fingers through her hair, stopping every so often to work out a tangle. Mouse sighs against him.

“Precious girl,” he hums lowly as her fingers trace along the stubble at his jaw, “go to sleep.”

“You're going to leave once I do.”

“Yes, that was the deal.”

“You’re not going to come back.”

Again, he’s struck with how well she knows him. “No, cyar’ika. I’m not.”

6 days earlier

His knuckles are wailing in pain and it feels so kriffing good. His hands, wrapped in protective tape are held tight and safe as he tenderizes the heavy bag in front of him. A low, guttural growl works its way up from his chest with each landed blow.

It’s the first time he’s felt in control in days. Even if it only lasted for his duration in the sparring rooms he didn’t care. When he closes his eyes he doesn’t see Mouse at the end of his blaster, the way her body recoiled and convulsed at the first shot. He doesn’t hear the scream that rips through her when the second bolt burns through her side. He doesn’t dwell on the voice in his head demanding the kill while Fox did everything to drag his near perfect aim away from center mass.

He pictures Sidious’ face on the bag and the pile of sloppy mash his fists were making it into. There’s catharsis in the exertion that a psych droid couldn’t give him.

“Commander, sir?”

Fox turns to see Hound stripped down to just his black under armor pants. He was a burly boy as far as clones went, thicker and more muscular through the torso, next to Hound, Fox looks almost lithe.

Fox pants lightly as he dips to grab a bottle of water and straighten back up. “What can I do for you?”

“I- do you need to-“

Fox watches as the man chooses his words carefully, finally gesturing first toward the mat.

“You wanna go a few, rounds? Looks like you could use it?”

A roll of tape is flipped through the air in answer. Hound catches it smoothly, giving Fox a happy grin as he begins wrapping his hands.

5 days earlier

There’s a neat hole in his wall, fist sized and fresh, less than a week old. Fox pretends like he doesn’t see Chancellor Organa eyeballing it with some amount of apprehension. What he can’t pretend is that a visit from the newly minted Chancellor to his office isn’t a surprise.

“Commander, you can drop the title with me.” The Chancellor says for the second time since his arrival.

“Sir, it’s frowned upon-“

“-not by me”

Fox huffs and closes his eyes to hide the roll of them. “Ok, fine. Can I get you something to drink? Some caf?”

Bail waves off the offer, “I won’t be long and it looks like you're woefully underserved.” He tips his head back toward the door and the empty desk.

A bristle of irritation tingles down Fox’s neck. “She was in the hospital. She was…” the words trail off. Part of protecting his little Mouse was keeping her involvement in the Sidious event quiet.

“I know, Commander.” Bail says quietly, “we share a friend on the council who’s made me aware of many interesting things.”

It feels like he’s being baited. He likes to think Organa wouldn't try to try to weasel information from him but his trust is a very delicate thing at the moment and he’s not willing to give an inch. His loyalty is to his men and the republic, after that only one other person had earned any devotion from him and that was not Bail Organa. At least not yet.

“If there’s anything I can do for her, anything she needs we can make that happen.”

Fox glances at the picture on his desk. It had come by courier earlier in the day. It’s been neatly matted and framed to be hung, a children’s drawing of a small green twi’lek child and him holding hands. He’d stared at it on his desk in silence for far too long before he felt something ugly bubble up. Now he had a hole in the wall. He hoped the picture would cover it.

Fox continues to look at the picture. He needs a second to pretend like he knows what Mouse needs. He doesn’t listen to the nagging voice inside of him saying it to him. He hates that voice, would smother it if he could.

“She needs time to heal.”

“I can make that happen.”

“Thank you.”

Earlier this day

“Senator Amidala” Fox greets the senator at the door, “this is a surprise. If I keep receiving politicians in my office I’m going to have to have it made more suitable.”

The senator gives him a bright smile, “it’s good to see you Fox.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, “it’s good to see you too Padmé.”

They were friends, of a sort. They’d seen enough together that Fox would gladly file her under battle buddies in his short list of friends. She looks lovely, as always, absolutely glowing. Her hand rests softly over the growing baby bump she was now proudly displaying.

“You look wonderful. Congratulations on the coming Ik’aad.” He offers gesturing toward her belly. His eyes linger and he remembers laying Mouse across his bed, placing kisses in a ring around her naval and imaging what it would be like someday when he-

Fox gives his head a quick shake and refocuses on the senator.

“Thank you.” He watches her eyes travel to the child’s drawing on the wall behind his desk before returning to him. “And how are you doing?”

“As well as can be expected. Chancellor Organa keeps a busy schedule and he’s insistent that I go with him. He’s got a lot of ideas and he asks my opinion. It’s different… but it’s nice.”

Padmé slips into the chair across from him.

“That’s wonderful” but she doesn’t sound like it’s wonderful. She sounds like she was here on a mission that he hasn’t been briefed on. He raises a brow at her. They’ve known each other long enough that she should know to just come out with it.

“We’re leaving for Naboo today. I want to have the baby in the lake country. It’s beautiful and peaceful.” She lets out a tired laugh, “and far away from the prying eyes of the holonet news.”

“They’ve been very… interested in you as of late” he offers diplomatically.

Another small laugh, “to say the least” Padmé sobers. “I just wanted to make sure you were ok with her going?”

Confusion must show on his face. Her?

Padmé frowns gently, the look of pity is out of place on her serene features, “you weren’t told, were you?”

“I’m afraid you’ll need to speak clearly.” Fox tries to bite back the tension but it slips into his voice.

She says Mouse’s name. Her real name.

“The Chancellor asked if we would take her with us. That she needed a place to finish recovering.” Padmé is watching his face. She’s trying to gauge his reaction.

He tries to give her nothing.

“She’s an amazing woman. She said if she went then she had to be useful. She’s going to be my assistant while I’m on leave-“

Fox holds up a hand. “She’s excellent at what she does. You’ll never be in better hands.”

“What about you?”

“I’m not her keeper. Mouse deserves to be safe and happy.” He shoots her a forced smile. “That’s not with me.”

Current

He had the rancor etched into his arm after Thorn had been killed in action on a mission Fox was supposed to have led. It was an inside joke they’d heard as shinies. Something about a Jedi and a rancor walking into a cantina. He can’t remember the punchline. It wasn’t funny anyways.

The Pantoran works the needle over his freshly shaven chest. Back and forth, outlining and filling. Pressing the ink into his skin to permanently mark him with another mark of regret, penance. Everytime he looks in the mirror, stripped down from his armor and his blacks he’ll see the reminder of what never was supposed to be, the thing that he went after when he knew it wasn’t allowed. The love that nearly destroyed the person he cared for beyond all others.

“So, this picture is pretty wicked” the Pantoran says conversationally. He glances back and forth from the reference picture Fox gave him, a partial hand print pressed against his armor, the fourth and fifth finger only partially visible and the heel of the hand smeared red. “Was it done in ink?”

“No. Blood.”

The Pantoran makes a sound of understanding. The buzz of the tattoo gun fills the quiet.

Seconds, minutes, hours it’s all the same as Fox sits still as stone in the chair, the press of the needle intimately familiar.

He thinks of Mouse on a shuttle to Naboo.

This was what he’d needed. Mouse far away, somewhere safe. Somewhere no one could hurt her. Where he couldn’t hurt her. No matter what he’s told he still doesn’t believe there isn’t something in him that can be persuaded, to be flipped on, that won’t harm her.

He needed to focus on his job, his men, the Galactic Republic. There was no world in which he and Mouse would work and it was better that she wasn’t there to know that.

“Alright, mate.” The Artist sets the gun down and claps his hands once before rubbing them together. “You’re all set. Why don’t you take a looksy in the mirror while I grab the bacta gel and a dressing?”

Fox nods and pushes himself up. His back is stiff from laying still and he takes a moment to stretch and twist before stepping in front of the mirror. His eyes trace the ink. It’s a perfect replica of the picture, deep vibrant red fingers pressing into his armor, only now pressing into his heart. A reminder of what happens when he becomes selfish. When he wants more than the greater design allows for.

“It’s perfect.”

#fox and mouse #commander fox/reader #cc 1010 #commander fox #fox fanciers #tcw

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bigskydreaming · 3 years

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hood-ex

i was like well he could just date some random dude who's an artist or something and then i was like oh wait. kyle. lmao. did dick and kyle ever have interactions when donna wasn't around? i mean i know dick found kyle's.. spirit? or whatever in jla. but any other major moments between them aren't coming to my brain

LOL, nope, Dick and Kyle have barely ever interacted ever. Just at Hal’s memorial and then the Obsidian Age, which was well after Kyle and Donna split......they never hung out with Dick when they were together, as he was....busy in Bludhaven. Like Donna and Kyle were together during that period when Roy was running the Titans and they had that weird lineup with Terra the Second and Impulse and Fake Supergirl and just....yeah. But point being like, that was basically right after Dick left the team and Kory left to return to Tamaran, so Dick was kinda deliberately avoiding most of the Titans at that time, as far as I’ve always viewed it.

But yeah honestly all my Dick/Kyle thoughts pretty much stem just from their very brief Obsidian Age interactions and then me going like, huh. I could see it. Its more based on just their characters in general, and the fact that I think they have such similar priorities and mindsets as to be more alike than different, but without being so similar that they’re in any way derivative of each other or like....immediate analogues. Like you think of either Dick or Kyle, you don’t immediately jump to the other because they don’t particular stand out as being interchangeable or anything, but when you dig a little into their characters you’re like, oh wow, they have a lot in common actually.

In particular I’ve always keyed into the slightly lonely nature of Kyle’s position as Torchbearer in the GL Corps. A nod to his time as the only GL left, and the fact that he resurrected the Guardians and restarted the Corps, essentially.....so he’s always stood a little apart from the rest of the GLs, even Hal and John and Guy who were still around in some way or another back when he was the solo GL. Its not that he’s not close with them, its just that he has a very unique experience among the GLs where for most of the Corps, they always had the support of the Corps behind them as they became more experienced as Green Lanterns. And the weight of what they all did as Green Lanterns and what people looked to them for, it was always spread among like....the whole Corps, whereas when Kyle was Green Lantern during his solo tenure, like, it all rested on him, there was no one else to look at or look to....all eyes were just on him.

That pressure, that absence of anyone who can fully relate, its always made him stand slightly apart from the rest of the Lanterns, even now that the Corps is back, and its only been heightened by the fact that he continues to have very unique experiences. Like how he was the only one to ever master the full emotional spectrum on his own, without external additives, the unique way in which he became the White Lantern, the fact that he has such a different relationship with the Ion entity than even those others who’ve hosted it, etc. Also the fact that like, despite his reputation among the Lanterns and others, despite how highly he’s regarded by them, that doesn’t always translate into the camaraderie and support you’d think it would, and most of his most intense adventures or most emotional storylines still happen when he’s off completely by himself with no lifelines. Because as much as he matters to the Corps and is valued by them, there’s always this kinda disconnect that frequently translates into a lot of distance between them and him, both physical and emotional.

And I’ve always thought there are a lot of parallels to the way Dick often feels like he’s alone even when in a crowd. That unique kind of pressure that comes from being the FIRST Robin, the original leader of the Titans, the guy who so often has acted as a trailblazer that others followed but without fully being able to relate to that experience of being first, of not having anyone TO follow, to have to make it up entirely as he went and hope that he wasn’t screwing up too much because it wasn’t like he had any precedent to look to or others to compare himself, his triumphs and his failures to. The way so often the buck stops with him and there’s no one really to pass it off to even when its not actually his fault, its more just.....people feel a need, a want to blame someone, and there’s not really anyone else to look at in his stead there. The similarities in how he also has such a positive reputation overall, and is seemingly so valued and respected by his various communities, and yet despite this it doesn’t always translate into direct and tangible support, leaving him often actually being cut-off and isolated during some of his most emotionally intensive storylines.

I think they have a lot of insight they could lend each other stemming from their respective experiences with the weight of legacy, which parallels without being the same....because the angle, the perspective is different with them. Kyle struggled with the weight of having to carry the entire legacy of the Green Lantern Corps by himself and feeling the responsibility of not wanting to let his predecessors down. Dick struggles with the weight of having his legacy carried by so many others and feeling responsible for what they go through as a result of that. And then at the same time Dick also struggled with the weight of carrying Bruce’s legacy as Batman at different times, such as Knightfall/Prodigal and then when he was lost in time, and now Kyle struggles with the weight of his legacy as Ion being carried on by others and the legacy his existence as the Torchbearer is creating for after he’s gone.

Additionally, they both have abundant experience with feeling under a microscope, like their every action is being scrutinized and they’re constantly being compared to the larger than life figure they’re most directly linked to. For Dick its Batman, for Kyle its Hal. That thing where they’re simultaneously expected to BE the equal to Bruce or Hal, or even better than them, but also at the same time being not exactly blamed for Bruce’s and Hal’s mistakes, but treated as even though they had nothing to do with their actions, they might as well have, kinda? Constantly compared to Bruce and Hal and with people saying they would have done this or that instead, but also with people quick to act like Bruce and Hal are their personal cautionary tales and tell them how dangerously close they are to becoming them whenever they do something that even slightly parallels the older two.

Also, they have this distance between themselves and Bruce and Hal....Dick because of the chasm between them during the early years of Nightwing and Kyle because Hal was basically a villain and then dead during his early years as Green Lantern.....but without anyone ever really factoring in that they’re not as joined at the hip to Bruce and Hal as people act like and they not only have nothing to do with the worst of their mistakes, but the older two weren’t always as involved in the younger two’s successes as people credit them as being. And that very niche feeling that only they can really relate to, where Dick and Kyle so often end up being Bruce and Hal’s biggest defenders, and how often this overwrites or gets in the way of Dick and Kyle ever getting to fully express valid resentments they have of how Bruce and Hal’s own actions and choices and reputations impact Dick and Kyle’s lives and actions and choices.

Plus I think they’d just be good for each other - Kyle actually does have the ability to relax and unwind with his art and other hobbies in ways Dick could definitely learn from and benefit from applying to his own life, and Dick has the gravitas and weight of history and experience that means he can really address in actionable ways that Kyle can truly internalize, like the longing Kyle has always had, despite his many accomplishments, to really feel like he isn’t just a hero by happenstance or mistake, that he really belongs among their number. Kyle was a diehard superhero fanboy before he ever got the ring, and you can’t tell me he didn’t have a crush on the first Robin when he debuted back when Kyle was probably in middle school (they’re actually pretty close in age, with everything lending itself to the idea that Kyle’s of a similar age with Dick and the original Titans). Likewise, you can’t tell me Dick has anything but respect for someone who manages to establish himself and his own reputation despite how easy it’d be to be overshadowed by his predecessors and their actions.

They both have extremely parallel storylines even in their particulars......both have been briefly killed then presumed dead and then isolated from their loved ones for a period for a ‘solo mission’ and then blamed for that upon their return, even though Dick wanted nothing to do with that mission and was forced into it by Bruce just like the same is true of Kyle who was backed into his by the Guardians. Both have struggled with suicidal ideation in the past, most notably in the aftermath of Blockbuster and then with Kyle, his subconscious literally created a nemesis for him named Oblivion, who wanted nothing other than his death, because Oblivion was literally Kyle’s own death wish made flesh and blood by Kyle’s willpower and leftover Ion energy.

Both have nightmares of being hijacked by someone else’s will and used as their puppets, with Dick and his many times being brainwashed and Kyle and his time possessed by Parallax. Both have extremely complicated feelings about children that were never truly theirs, both have been the scapegoat for crimes they didn’t commit, both are wracked with guilt for things they choose to take responsibility for but only because nobody ever told them it wasn’t actually their fault. Both are rape survivors whose rapes were never taken seriously or treated like they matter, and both are desperate for the approval of loved ones and mentors who actually do approve of them very much, but just often struggle to show them that in the ways they really need in order to BELIEVE it.

I could go on, lol, but like, you get it. Don’t worry, you’re not forgetting about some super significant story between Dick and Kyle, it really was just me latching on to that one story from twenty years ago where Kyle’s like if we get out of this alive, I want a hug, and Dick’s like deal, and I was like SOLD. And then my brain manufactured all these other reasons why clearly they are soulmates, and thus you have the Good Ship Dick/Kyle, which I shall sail forever more, no matter if I am only ever a crew of one.

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